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ELIZABETH BESS 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

KKW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 


MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Dro. 

TORONTO 




“ He — he liked me, too,” Lois said steadily 









ELIZABETH BESS 

LITTLE GIRL OF THE SIXTIES^’ 


BY 

E. C. SCOTT 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BT 
ALICE BEARD 


fork 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1917 


A.II rights reserved 


Copyright, 1917 

By the MACMILLAN COMPANY 


Set up and electrotyped. Published, September, 1917. 


V 


SEP -6 1917 

©CI.A470926 


TO 

J. E. S. 


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PREFACE 


“After the War” was a transition period — a 
time when traditions were being joggled : when what 
we now call “ The Melting Pot ” was just beginning 
to simmer, to the alarm and disgust of the conserva- 
tive New Englander. 

This was the period when a “ reconstruction ” was 
going on no less surely in the North than in the 
South, a readjustment, rather, of views and values. 
While party lines were still strongly drawn, most 
men had ceased to look askance at the followers 
of different political creeds. The Abolitionist, who 
had sought his neighbour’s arrest as a traitor be- 
cause that neighbour had dared to stand for peace 
amidst the clamour for war, now felt a little ashamed 
of his former ardour; while the other, who thought 
War an abomination, and Lincoln a sycophant in 
yielding to the demand for it, was now ready to lay 
a wreath upon the Liberator’s grave. But in a few 
instances, the old rancour persisted. 

Of course, these conditions may only be touched 
upon in a book of this kind. It is to those who love 
the quaint and unconscious humour of childhood, its 
idyllic ideals and unthinking faith in them — and the 
spirit of romance that never grows old — that this 
chronicle of a little “ after-the-war ” New Englander 
is confidently commended. 



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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I “Missing!” i 

II “ No Wee One, No Party! ” . . . . io 

III “ And All Is Vanity ! ” 19 

IV When the Old Gong Blew .... 30 

V Elizabeth Bess Goes Calling ... 39 

VI “ The Best-Laid Plans! ” .... 50 

VII Exiled! 57 

VIII Grandsir Gives His Word .... 68 

IX Confidences 75 

X The Front Gate 81 

XI “ Friday for Crosses ! ” 85 

XII A Fourth of July Chronicle ... 94 

XIII When Hate Was Born! 105 

XIV The Grown-Ups Confer 113 

XV Abraham’s “ Accident ” 117 

XVI One Sunday in November .... 123 
XVII Re-enter the Eavesdropper . . . .133 

XVIII Uncle Jim Takes Up the Quest . . 137 

XIX The Golden Rule 145 

XX “ Cum Grano Salis! ” 15 1 

XXI What Happened in Philadelphia . .155 

XXII The First Christmas Tree . . . .168 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXIII The Tragedy OF THE Knife .... 173 

XXIV Lost — One White House and Picket 

Fence! 185 

XXV “MyWee-um!” 19 1 

XXVI The Last Day of School . . . .196 

XXVII “ When a Woman Will — ” . . . .210 

XXVIII The Big Day 217 

XXIX “ Not Missing Any More I ” . . . . 223 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


“He — he liked me too,” Lois said steadily Frontispiece ^ 

FACING 

PAGE 

But her Elizabeth Bess they changed into a clean little 
faded delaine 


Elizabeth Bess left to herself climbed up on the grind- 
stone frame 108 




“Don’t say ‘no’ again” 


178 


ELIZABETH BESS 






ELIZABETH BESS 


CHAPTER I 

“ missing! ” 

G rown folks are funny! They are always 
doing queer, interesting things, if given half 
a chance. All you have to do is to let 
them think they are alone, and you can almost al- 
ways count on a new experience ! 

This was especially true of Cousin Winnie, who 
lived in New York and had come to spend the holi- 
days with the Bradfords. In the first place, she 
was so delightfully pretty and young ladyish ! And 
if you sat under the high bed with the valance, and 
applied your eye to the little cut-out place where the 
valance rounded the post (of course, this happened 
only on the rare occasions when there was no other 
way out of being caught “ snoopin’ ’round,” as 
William called it) , it was better than Godey^s Lady^s 
Book pictures when she came in and began to fix 
her hair and primp before the glass. 

Cousin Winnie’s toilet articles were an endless 
source of interest, too, second only to her jewel case, 
with its rings and pins and bracelets and chains. 
And to see her twisting one of the long, brown curls 


2 


ELIZABETH BESS 


around her finger or, with plump arms gracefully 
upraised, pinning them all in a bunch at the back 
of her head! 

And when she would plait up a ribbon with 
twinkling fingers — holding it up to her face, to 
match it with her roseleaf skin — and then pin it 
among the curls where it would do the most execu- 
tion (provided there was anything to execute, in this 
deadly dull little place) the artist’s heart in little 
Elizabeth Bradford — nicknamed “Elizabeth Bess” 
from an old rhyme — thrilled with ecstasy ! 

Christmas was three days past, and therefore an- 
cient history. Its sweets had begun to cloy, and its 
toys to pall; so the little one hunted up her inher- 
ited dolls which had been cast into the limbo of the 
hall closet, and took them into the parlour, where a 
cosy fire was burning in the big, urn-topped stove. 
Tiptoeing to the mantel then, she took down a 
framed picture of a soldier in uniform and, standing 
it against the table leg, began talking to it and weav- 
ing romance about it, as was her custom. She had 
been forbidden to take down the picture since one 
unfortunate day when she had dropped it and broken 
the glass; and now, hearing Mother and Cousin 
Winnie approaching, and the latter’s bedroom door 
being more easily accessible than the high mantel, 
the little girl caught up dolls and picture and dis- 
appeared with them under the valanced bed. 

The two women had their sewing with them, and 
Mother’s needle began to fly industriously. Cousin 
Winnie’s sewing was never a momentous matter; she 
could drop it without a qualm 1 


“MISSING I 


3 


So now, after a few busy minutes, she yawned, 
laid her sewing on the table and, with her slender 
hands clasped behind her, began making the round 
of the room, examining the pictures and ornaments, 
and humming “Jane, My Pretty Jane I” as she 
progressed. 

Stopping at the little corner stand whereon stood 
the Bible, Cousin Winnie opened it and began turn- 
ing the leaves. 

“ Elizabeth Bradford.” 

Her name, impressively spoken, caused the child 
to start so violently that she bumped her head 
against the bed slats. Then, “ It doesn’t seem pos- 
sible that she’s five years old!” Cousin Winnie 
added, and the little eavesdropper breathed again. 

“ Howell Harlan Bradford . . . Missing after 
Gettysburg, July 3d, 1863,” the voice trailed off 
into silence — a queer silence. 

Elizabeth Bess caught up the soldier’s picture, 
and holding it to the little cut-out place in the val- 
ance, where the light fell, examined it critically. 

“ Missing,” she whispered to herself. “ Miss- 
ing.” Now, what in the world did that mean? 

“Yes,” Mother answered after a pause. “It’s 
been nearly four years! ” 

Ah ! That was what it meant, then ! Mother’s 
voice told the story. It meant that Howell was 
dead. But, if they meant dead, why didn’t they say 
so? Such quibbling! Just as if it would make him 
any less dead to call it by another name ! Her poor 
Howell ! She took up the picture, and kissed it with 
unction. 


4 


ELIZABETH BESS 


The stress of her feelings, coupled with a slight 
cold, caused the child to sniff, whereat the game 
was up. 

“Elizabeth Bradford, where are you?” called 
Mother sternly. And the little thing crawled ab- 
jectly from under the bed. 

“ Go out into the kitchen, and stay there till I 
come. I’m ashamed of you, you little eavesdrop- 
per! ” 

The eavesdropper, with drooping head, carry- 
ing the picture behind her back, slipped out into 
the hall. There her head went up, and she skipped 
triumphantly. For had she not hoodwinked the 
elders? Of course they could not see the picture, 
when it was behind her back 1 

Her brother, William, was sitting at the kitchen 
table, poring over a lot of illustrated newspapers 
that Cousin Winnie had brought from New York. 
These were the first the children had seen, and were 
a source of great pleasure to them. Slipping the pic- 
ture into the table drawer, until she could return it 
to its place, Elizabeth Bess also took up a paper; but 
it lacked its usual appeal. 

“ Wee-um, what is * Missing^? she asked pres- 
ently. 

“ Why? What do you want to know for? ” he 
countered curiously. 

“ ’Cause Howell is. Is it another name for 
dead? Cousin Winnie just read it out of the Bible. 
It said, ‘ Howell Flarlan Bradford missing after 
breakfast, July 30, 1863.’ ” She said this all in a 
breath, expecting an appreciation of her smartness. 


MISSING! 


But William only wrinkled up his brows, and stared 
at her uncomprehendingly. 

“ Stop looking at me like that, Wee-um Bradford! 
You go look in the Bible and you’ll see it for your- 
self! ” she said truculently. 

“ Oh, no 1 I won’t see any such stuff as that in 
the Bible,” William contradicted. Suddenly light 
dawned on him, and he started to laugh; but he 
changed his mind in view of his sister’s seriousness 
— the seriousness of the whole thing, in fact. 

“ I know what it said,” he told her, as man to 
man. “ It said ‘ Missing after Gettysburg * not 
after ‘ breakfast.’ That was a big battle that How- 
ell was in.” 

“Oh, was it? . . . But, Wee-um, what is ‘miss- 
ing ’? ” she persisted. “ What does it mean? ” 

“ Why, it means — it means when anything can’t 
be found. Remember that time when you couldn’t 
find your kitten for two or three days? Well, that 
was missing! ” 

“But it came back!” she cried. “It wasn’t 
dead. 0-oh! Why didn’t somebody tell me that 
Howell is coming back? I thought he was dead, 
and he’s only missing! ” 

“ Why! ” William began, and stopped, at a loss. 
Looking up, he saw Mother standing in the door- 
way where she had been listening. “ You tell her. 
Mother,” said he, relieved. 

“ We didn’t tell you. Child, because we are not 
sure that he is coming back. We think, dear, that 
your brother Howell is in Heaven,” said Mother 
gently. 


6 


ELIZABETH BESS 


“But he isn’t, Mother! If he was dead the 
Bible’d say he was dead! The Bible doesn’t tell 
stories — does it? ” she demanded. 

“ But, dear, the Bible itself doesn’t say so. Fa- 
ther wrote it in the Bible. It means — ” But no 
further explanation was needed. 

“ Well, I guess if my father wrote it, it’s so! I 
guess my father doesn’t tell stories, either ! ” and the 
child looked from one to the other of her auditors, 
challenging contradiction. 

It seemed to Mother that there was nothing more 
to be said. William did not think so. He stood 
looking oddly at Mother; but she evaded his glance, 
and left the room, whereupon he returned to his 
papers. And his sister, after another triumphant 
declaration that Howell was coming back, returned 
to hers. 

“. . . Wee-um, what’s a eavesdropper?” was 
the question that recalled William from Norway, 
just as the champion of the world was finishing a 
race on skates. 

“ For pity’s sake, get a dictionary! ” cried Wil- 
liam in disgust. Then, seeing how hurt the little 
one looked, he relented. Suspecting a guilty con- 
science at the bottom of the inquiry, a twinkle crept 
into his eye as he answered, “ You’re an eaves- 
dropper, Lizabeth Bess! It’s somebody who goes 
snoopin’ round, a-peeking and a-listening to what’s 
none of their business. Now, do you know? ” 

The child wilted before this sweeping arraign- 
ment. It seemed so much worse than Mother’s re- 
proof that she bent her head over the paper and the 


“MISSING I” 


7 


red crept up Into her cheeks. Then she put her 
elbow on the table and shaded her eyes with her 
hand. 

William, who could interpret his little sister’s ac- 
tions down to the play of a muscle, felt that he had 
gone too far. “ Cracky! ” he cried, snatching up a 
paper, and burying his nose in it. “ See here, Liza- 
beth Bess, d’you see this? Here’s about a lot of 
dolls dressed up like Queen Victoria and Queen 
Elizabeth and the Empress Eugenie that’s to be sold 
for poor orphant children I Come on, and I’ll read 
it to you.” 

Lizabeth Bess hated to “ come on ” after her 
snubbing, but the doll queens, especially Elizabeth, 
were not to be resisted. . . . “ What’s orphant chil- 
dren, Wee-um? Are we? ’Cause- I’d love to have 
this one,” pointing to a be-ruffed Mary, Queen of 
Scots. “ And which is Queen Lizabeth? ” 

“ Well, I guess we’re not! Orphants have no fa- 
ther or mother. These are soldiers’ orphants, and 
they all live in a big house called a ‘ Home.’ ” 

“ Well, so do I live in a big house called a home. 
And so am I a sholdier’s orph — Oh, no ! But 
I’m a sholdier’s little sister. They ought to give me 
one, Wee-um ! ” 

William felt that life was too short to argue the 
matter; and just then Elizabeth Bess found some- 
thing else to interest her : 

“ See here, Wee-um, see this man in a big shol- 
dier’s coat, with a little baby in his arms. Do you 
s’pose he’s a truly sholdier, or only a tramper, like 
the one Mother gave dinner to the other day.” 


ELIZABETH BESS 


8 , 


“ Let’s see,” said William, taking the paper. 
“ Why, yes, he’s a soldier. And what d’you think 
he did? He went into a house that was all afire, 
and brought out that baby. Every one else was 
afraid to go in, and the baby’d have burned up only 
for him. Wasn’t he brave? ” 

“ I sh’d think he was ! What was his name, Wee- 
um? ” 

“ Let’s see : Why, isn’t this funny ! He didn’t 
know his own name — or where he lived, or any- 
thing. The paper thinks he got hit on the head in 
the war, and that’s why he can’t remember. They 
call him ‘ Lestrange,’ just so’s he’ll have some name. 
Isn’t it funny! ” 

‘‘ Huh! ” scoffed the little sister. “ I been hit on 
the head lots o’ times, and I can remember! ” 

“ Maybe you couldn’t if a cannon-ball had hit you 
on the head ! ” 

“ He doesn’t look as if a cannon-ball had hit him,” 
observed the critic, wiser than she knew. She 
studied the picture carefully. 

“ . . . Wee-um Bradford, do you know what I 
think? Well, I think that’s Howell!” William 
checked an exclamation. “Yes, sir! That coat’s 
just ’zactly like his coat in his picture. ’N’ his 
hair’s curly, ’n’ he’s thin, ’n’ — ” 

“ This isn’t a truly likeness, like the one we have 
of Howell,” William explained patiently. “ Some- 
body drew this, just as you draw pictures on your 
slate. Howell is — well, it isn’t he added 

with ungrammatical finality, “ and that’s all there 
is about it ! ” 


“ MISSING! 


9 


“ Well, anyway,” she was insisting, but William 
pushed away the papers, and went hastily into the 
buttery, where Mother was skimming the milk, and 
shut the door after him. 

“ I don’t know what’s got into Lizabeth Bess 
to-day,” he complained, and told her the story of 
the pictured “ sholdier.” “ Why didn’t you tell her 
the truth right out, Mother? We won’t have any 
peace now, till you do 1 ” 

“ Oh, I guess she’ll forget about it in a few days,” 
Mother said, dismissing the matter. 

“No she won’t! She never forgets anything!” 

“ She seemed so happy over her ‘ discovery,’ that 
I couldn’t bear to throw cold water over it,” said 
Mother tremulously. 

That night, when everybody else was in bed. 
Mother hunted up the paper containing the article, 
and although the incident had occurred weeks before, 
she wrote a letter to the mayor of the place men- 
tioned, asking if he could give her any information 
of the soldier-hero. 

“ ‘ Out of the mouths of babes,’ ” she said softly 
to herself. 

So do mothers, as well as drowning men, grasp 
at a straw ! 


CHAPTER II 

NO WEE ONE, NO PARTY I ’’ 


IFE, to Elizabeth Bess Bradford, had taken 



on a livelier aspect since yesterday. All day 


^ vague hints of something unusual had been 
floating about, — tantalisingly, delightfully indefi- 


nite ! 


Could it be that Howell was coming home to-day? 
Had the “ little bird,” Mother’s faithful informant, 
told her so? Was that why she was putting new 
lace in her black silk dress, and looking unusually 
animated? 

And Cousin Winnie had brought out her lovely, 
lovely pink silk with the beaded trimming, and asked 
Mother if she should wear it. “ Oh, no ! ” Mother 
had answered. “ That’s too fine for Green Hills. 
Wear the crimson merino that you wore Christmas 
Day.” 

Catching Mother alone, her small daughter ven- 
tured to ask her a question. 

“ Howell coming home to-day? ” repeated Mother, 
startled out of her calm. “ Child, he isn’t coming 
home at all ! ” But seeing the little one’s disappoint- 
ment, she amended: “ At least, I don’t think he is. 
Now, don’t think about it any more — if he comes, 
he’ll be here, and you’ll know it.” 


10 


“NO WEE ONE, NO PARTY I” ii 

If he came he’d be here, and she’d know it ! Now 
wasn’t that a smart thing to say I Elizabeth Bess 
wondered at Mother. She would go and find Wil- 
liam, who did not treat her like a little child. 

As she stood in the back entry, watching the chick- 
adees eating the fat pork placed for them on the 
apple-tree branch, she heard Cousin Winnie come into 
the kitchen and say to Mother, “ Aunt Anne, is the 
child going to-night? ” And Mother replied, “ Oh, 
no; she’s going to stay at home with the other chil- 
dren.” 

Just then William came in, and made a diversion, 
— William, who was twelve — a little more than 
twice his sister’s age, and her pride and joy. Even 
her parents were no dearer to her than this “ big ” 
brother. So, when he got out the “ Walking 
Zouave ” that Cousin Winnie had brought her for 
Christmas, and told her to sit at the other end of 
the table and turn him around when he got there, 
she took her place like a stoic, although she hated 
and feared the Zouave. What with the fierce stare 
of his bold eyes as he came striding down the table 
toward her (this was after William had inserted a 
key in his baggy blouse and wound him up) — and 
the black blackness of his moustache and imperial, 
it was all she could do to keep from jumping up and 
running from the room. 

Now, so intent was she upon what Mother had 
said about her “ staying at home with the other chil- 
dren,” that she forgot to turn the warrior around 
at the table end and so he fell off onto the floor, his 
insides still horribly rumbling and purring, and his 


12 ELIZABETH BESS 

mailed feet impotently kicking as he glared up at 
her. 

“Pick him up, Lizabeth Bess I” cried William, 
seeing her shrink back. 

“ No, Wee-um, I won’t pick him up — and don’t 
you I ” she protested. 

“ Aw, come on. Watch out for him this time! ” 
So she watched out, and turned the monster when he 
approached, but her thoughts were not on him. So 
she was to stay at home with the other children, was 
she? And what was it that she was going to stay 
away from? Well, that didn’t make any difference, 
since she was going to stay away. And she wasn’t 
going to ask. Mother was always telling her to 
deny herself, and she guessed she could. 

All the same, it was pretty hard to bear, and 
Mother not even to tell her about it. She was pre- 
paring to take refuge in the “ spare chamber ” — her 
retreat in time of stress — when a familiar step 
sounded on the porch, and with a brisk “ Happy 
New Year! ” in came “ Chinney.” 

“ Happy New Year, Mr. Cheney! ” replied every- 
body but the little girl who, at that moment, was 
afraid to trust her treacherous under lip. 

Now Mr. Cheney, a near neighbour of the Brad- 
fords, was the child’s particular friend and champion, 
as she was his especial pet. It was he who had 
christened her “ The Wee One,” when she “ wasn’t 
as big as a pint of cider,” and as she was still small 
and slight, the title survived. 

And she had given him a nickname — oh, long 
ago, when she was little! “ P-o-o-r Chinney! ” she 


NO WEE ONE, NO PARTY! 


13 


would say, stroking his red curls. She said it now, 
perched on his shoulder. Rather, she breathed it 
into his ear, lest William, or her big sister Sara, 
hearing, should laugh and call her a baby. 

“ Well, Mrs. Bradford,” began the visitor, “ I was 
charged to tell you all to come early. And that 
doesn’t mean six o’clock. The supper is to be at 
6.30, and you’ll want time to get warmed up before- 
hand. It’s going to be a cold night.” 

Elizabeth Bess was instantly alert. “ Come 
where, Chinney? And who’s coming?” she asked. 

“You are, for one. What? Didn’t they tell 
you you were coming up to Chinney’s house to-night, 
to eat the New Year’s turkey? ” 

“ Oh, no, no, Mr. Cheney,” Mother hastily inter- 
posed. “ She’s going to stay at home with the other 
children to-night. They’re going to pop corn, and 
make molasses candy. This isn’t to be a children’s 
party, dear. Mrs. Cheney has asked only grown 
folks.” 

“ It’s going to be one child’s party,” Chinney an- 
swered with finality. “ The Wee One has got to 
be there. No Wee One, no party! ” 

The elders laughed, and no more was said. But 
the child was satisfied. Chinney was a great joker, 
but when he said a thing like that — “ No Wee One, 
no party! ” that settled it — she was going. 

Noon came, and the small hours of afternoon, but 
no more was said about her going. Mother and 
Cousin Winnie put on their pretty dresses, and 
Mother told “ Gran ” to put on her black, lilac- 
sprigged silk. But her, Elizabeth Bess, they changed 


14 


ELIZABETH BESS 


into a clean little faded delaine. When she pro- 
tested, Mother said (with the usual quantities of gen- 
tleness and firmness nicely mixed) : “ But you’re not 
going, dear. Mr. Cheney was only joking. You 
and Sara and William are going to have a nice party 
at home.” 

Still the child did not cry. Indeed, she was sur- 
prised at her own bravery. She went into Gran’s 
room, where the old lady was preparing to don the 
lavender-sprigged silk, and in a voice pitched high 
to penetrate her partial deafness, remarked: 

“ You needn’t dress up. Gran — there isn’t going 
to be any party at Chinney’s house to-night.” 

“ Wh-what do you mean, child? ” Gran asked in 
alarm. “ Why, we’re all invited — your father and 
mother, and Cousin Winnie and me ! ” 

“ And amended Elizabeth Bess with calm 

dignity. “ But it doesn’t make any difference — 
Chinney said if I wasn’t there, there wouldn’t be any 
party — and I ain’t a-going!” she ended quickly, 
and made a hasty retreat to the window, where she 
jammed her ridiculous chin against the glass, to keep 
it still. 

Gran sat down weakly, the lilac-sprigged dress 
across her lap. Parties, even little parties, didn’t 
come every day, and this invitation had meant a good 
deal to her. “ I guess he was only fooling, child,” 
she said hopefully, but her listener fancied that she 
saw Gran’s chin quiver now. 

“ He wasn’t; he said ‘ No Wee One, no party! ’ 
just like that. And I guess you’ll all feel pretty 
funny when you get up there.” 



But her Elizabeth Bess they changed into a clean little 
faded delaine 














“NO WEE ONE, NO PARTY I” 15 

“ What did Mother say about your going? ” Gran 
moistened her lips to ask. 

“ She just said it wasn’t a child’s party, and that 
I couldn’t go. I thought — I thought when Chinney 
said that that she’d let me, but — everybody’s get- 
ting dressed up but me, and I ain’t a-going I ” Again 
she darted to the window, and there was a long 
silence in the room. It was broken at length by a 
little laugh from Gran, at which Lizabeth Bess 
turned, fiercely questioning. 

“ I wasn’t laughing at you, dear,” said the old 
lady placatingly. “ I was just thinking of something 
that happened to me when I was a little girl about 
your size. You reminded me of it.” 

“ I don’t see how I reminded you of anything 
funny. I don’t feel funny.” 

“ Well, you did. Come here, and I’ll tell you 
about it, if you like.” There was a certain crafti- 
ness in the look the old lady bent upon the child, say, 
rather, upon the other child. She pushed the silk 
dress off her lap, and took up her youngest descend- 
ant, who was rather pessimistic regarding the line of 
entertainment offered. 

“ Yes, I was about your size,” she ruminated, 
“ and my mother had promised me a new bonnet 
the next time she went to town. She said if I was 
a good little girl she would take me along, and let 
me choose it for myself. 

“ Well, I was a good girl, just like you. I helped 
my mother with the dishes, and I minded the baby, 
and I did — oh! dozens of things. But when the 
time came, she wouldn’t let me go.” 


i6 


ELIZABETH BESS 


The child hitched around where she could look 
into Gran’s eyes, and note every expression. This 
was getting interesting. 

“ You see, she had to go on some errand sooner 
than she expected, so she wasn’t prepared to take 
me. But I tell you I was disappointed I I had 
counted so much on it, and worked so hard for it, that 
I felt I was being cheated. So I just made up my 
mind that I would go — and I did! ” 

“ Oh, Gran! How did you do it? ” 

“ Well,” answered Gran, with another guileful side 
glance at her auditor, “ when Mother went to get 
ready, I went and put on my best dress. Father 
was going too, to sell some apples and potatoes. He 
put them in bags in the back of the sleigh, and cov- 
ered them over with blankets to keep them from 
freezing. Then, when he came in to get Mother, I 
slipped out, and got under the blankets with the ap- 
ples and potatoes.” 

Gran Bradford! ” 

“ I did, so ! I wasn’t going to be cheated out of 
my rights! But I was in a terribly cramped posi- 
tion, there among the sacks, and it was mighty stuffy ! 
One of my feet went to sleep, and it seemed as if I 
must wiggle it, or die.” 

“ Did you wiggle it? ” 

“ I did. And that came near being the end of 
my trip. The movement raised a dust, and I had 
to cough, and — but Gran had to laugh again at 
the recollection. 

“Go on. Gran!” 


NO WEE ONE, NO PARTY I 


17 


“ Mother was for sending me straight back home. 
I don’t remember just what she said, but anyway, it 
hurt my feelings, and I began to cry. Then . Father 
came to my relief — said that I had been promised 
my bonnet, and that I should have it. And I guess 
Mother herself hadn’t the heart to make me walk 
back home in the cold and snow ; so they took me to 
town, and I got my bonnet.” 

Elizabeth Bess breathed a deep sigh, expressive of 
many emotions. Presently she slipped down off 
Gran’s lap. “ I guess I’ll go now, and let you 
change your dress,” she said. “ Maybe you’d bet- 
ter change it, for there might be a party, after all. 
Mother’s put on her pretty new dress, so you might 
as well. Good-bye, Gran.” She opened the door a 
little way again, and peered solemnly around it to 
say, “ You never can tell! ” 

Left alone, the grandmother began to array her- 
self, albeit with hands that trembled. . . . Suppos- 
ing? . . . And then again, supposing? But when 
her daughter-in-law came in to hurry her up, she 
dropped her misgivings like a garment. Father 
came in a little later to escort her out to the sleigh, 
where he tucked her into the back seat beside Cousin 
Winnie. He and Mother took the front seat, and 
they were off. 

As they started. Mother craned her neck to wave 
good-bye to the little group standing in the open 
doorway, from which the early lamp-light was 
streaming. But only Sara and William were there 
— the youngest one was not in sight. Mother 


1 8 


ELIZABETH BESS 


looked at the window of the spare chamber, expect- 
ing to see a doleful small face peering out, but there 
was none. 

“ Poor little thing! ” she said wistfully. “ I ex- 
pect she’s up in the old cradle in the garret, crying. 
I suppose we might have taken her 1 She’s always 
good, at home or abroad.” 

“ Well, why didn’t you take her? ” Father asked 
with some warmth. “ It’s too late now, but next 
time the child is invited, she’s going! ” 

Their hospitable hosts met them at the door, and 
the first question was for little Bess. 

“Well, if that isn’t too bad!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Cheney, in answer to her neighbours’ somewhat lame 
excuses. “ Of course we expected her ! ” 

“ It’s so bad that it’ll have to be made good! ” 
said Chinney, reaching for his overcoat. “ Now 
you needn’t say a word, any of you — I’m going 
after the Wee One ! ” 

But even as he shouldered into his coat the threat 
was discounted. The hall door opened softly, and 
a little figure with a long shawl trailing after it, and 
some oat straws in its hair, slipped in. 

Everybody shouted a welcome, except Gran. That 
old conspirator, pale and guilty, hastily sought a 
chair. But she need not have feared — the child 
was no tattle-tale. Ignoring the rest, she put her 
little hands in Chinney’s, and looked up at him with 
radiant eyes. 

“You can have your party now, Chinney: I’ve 
come ! ” said she. 


CHAPTER III 
“and all is vanity I” 

T he Bradfords’ nearest neighbours were the 
Hortons: a family a round dozen strong, 
when you counted in Grandsir and Grandma 
Hart who lived with them; and one that loomed 
large on Lizabeth Bess’s horizon, in more ways than 
one: “ Burfa,” the youngest, was her own age, and 
her devoted friend. Then came a number of small 
fry with whom she had little to do. Charlie and 
Sallie, the fifteen-year-old twins, were the objects of 
a qualified regard. 

Charlie, “ Bunt,” as was his nickname, would have 
been a passable person but for the fact that he was 
always making fun of her, and “mocking” (mim- 
icking) her; and then he called William “ Billy,” an 
indignity second only to that of calling father “ your 
old man,” as had once happened. 

Sallie was always running in on the way to school, 
and waiting for Sara, who was about her own age; 
and at such times, the youngest might have been her 
own old rag doll, for all the attention they paid to 
her. 

Last of all came Lois, who was sweet and twenty, 
pretty and demure. Lois — or Miss Lois as she 
was now called, having attained to the dignity of 
teacher of the district school, dressed in black a good 
19 


20 


ELIZABETH BESS 


deal; and at other times affected soft greys and 
browns, so that Cousin Winnie had dubbed her “ the 
Little Quaker Lady.” 

It was on a Friday afternoon, and the last day of 
Cousin Winnie’s stay at the Round Hill farmhouse, 
that “ Miss Lois,” instead of her sister Sallie, came 
In with Sara after school. She stopped downstairs 
to say good-bye to the visitor and chat a minute with 
Mrs. Bradford, who greeted her with something 
more than the usual neighbourly kindness. Then the 
two girls went upstairs together, as if they had some 
private business on hand, as Cousin Winnie re- 
marked. 

“ Yes,” replied Mother, “ Sara told me that Lois 
was coming in to pierce her ears, so that she can 
wear her new earrings. Lois is an expert at it, and 
in great demand among the girls.” 

Elizabeth Bess, who was singing her doll to sleep 
beside the parlour stove, stopped singing, and her 
mouth fell ajar. 

Miss Lois was going to “piece” Sara’s ears! 
Weill! 

People “ pieced ” bed quilts, but this was the first 
time she had ever heard of any one’s having their 
ears “ pieced! ” She was about to ask Mother what 
it meant, but, remembering former occasions when 
her questions had been a cause of mirth to her elders, 
(or of shame to herself, like the “eavesdropper” 
Incident), she refrained. She would find out for 
herself, without asking anybody! 

Up the stairs she tiptoed, and slipped Into Sara’s 
room so quietly that her advent was unnoticed. 


“AND ALL IS VANITY!” 


21 


Sara was sitting before the bureau, and Miss Lois 
was bending over her with a threaded needle in her 
hand. The “ piecing ” was about to begin 1 

But no 1 Miss Lois laid the needle down on the 
bureau, and took from her bag a thimble and a cork, 
which she laid beside it. Then she deliberately 
pinched Sara’s ears, till they were as red as cran- 
berries! The mirror showed her that Sara was 
smiling, a ghastly sort of little smile; so it must be 
some kind of a game, that they were playing. 

Next she put the thimble on her finger, and placing 
the cork behind one of the poor, pinched ears, took 
the needle, and drove it into the flesh, pushing it 
until it disappeared on the other side, leaving part 
of the thread hanging! 

And Sara said not a word — cried not a cry ! 

Elizabeth Bess felt sick — sick, as she watched the 
operation; but it seemed physically impossible for 
her either to withdraw her eyes, or get upon her 
feet to leave the room, or even to protest, since Sara 
did not. Spellbound, she watched Miss Lois repeat 
the outrage on the other ear; and through this, too, 
Sara was silent. When it was over, and the woman 
turned to put away the tools of her inhuman trade, 
she stooped, and looking in Sara’s face, laughed 
lightly. Laughed! 

“ Did it hurt you much? ” she asked. And poor 
Sara answered, “ No, not much.” But her lip, where 
she had bitten it, was white; and the child saw her 
make a dab at her eyes, with the corner of her apron. 
Then it was that she threw herself, sobbing, into her 
sister’s arms. 


22 


ELIZABETH BESS 


“ Send her home, Sara — send that old school 
teacher home I ” 

As it happened, that evening when Cousin Winnie 
was packing she came across a gift that she had not 
been able to find before. It was a pair of tiny gold 
“ hoops,” which was one of the fashions in earrings 
in the Sixties. The little box that held them had 
slipped down into a corner of her trunk, but now, 
upon finding it, she presented it with a flourish, an- 
ticipating her small cousin’s delight. The elders 
were still ignorant of the afternoon’s episode. 

Lizabeth Bess attracted by their bright prettiness, 
was delighted with the gift until told what the hoops 
were for. Then, after a long look into the donor’s 
eyes, she laid the box in her lap, and began slowly 
backing away across the room. Having reached the 
haven of Mother’s lap, she made a distinct announce- 
ment ; 

“ Miss Lois Horton isn’t going to make holes in 
my ears with a needle and thread!” The elders 
exchanged illuminating glances. 

“ But, dear, you can’t wear them if you don’t have 
your ears pierced 1 ” Cousin Winnie protested. 

“ Miss Lois Horton isn’t going to piece my ears ! 
Sara can have the old things if she wants ’em 1 ” 

“ Elizabeth Bradford! ” cried Mother, shocked at 
this exhibition of ill manners. She put Bess firmly 
down, and the child seated herself in her little chair, 
and continued to gaze stolidly before her until pres- 
ently the lids drooped over her eyes, her head 
dropped sideways, and she was asleep. 


AND ALL IS VANITY I 


23 


Mother, relenting, half wished the earrings were 
back in New York. She wished it wholly when, on 
picking up the sleeper to put her to bed, the little one 
drowsily voiced her ultimatum: 

“ Miss Lois — Horton — shan’t stick — a — 
n-e-e-d-l-e — ” 

“No, sweetheart, she shan’t!” Mother whis- 
pered into the unconscious ears, and the incident, 
temporarily at least, was closed. 

Waking up in the middle of the night, as it seemed 
to her, through the half open bedroom door the child 
saw Mother and Cousin Winnie still sitting by the 
fire, confidentially talking. Perhaps it was the sound 
of her own name that had waked her. Cousin Win- 
nie was saying, 

“ I’m sorry now, that I didn’t bring something else 
for Bess instead of the earrings. The Little Quaker 
Lady is evidently in her bad graces, too,” and she 
laughed softly. 

“Yes, and I’m sorry about that tool” Mother 
spoke up. “ Bess is so decided in her likes and dis- 
likes, and Lois is a dear girl. ... I believe I’ve 
never told you, Winnie, but — Lois might have been 
my daughter, if — if things had turned out differ- 
ently.” 

“ I have wondered if her quiet colours and her 
pensiveness might not indicate something of that 
sort. Aunt Anne. And that locket that she wears, 
and guards so carefully? Willie and Bess were try- 
ing to get her to let them open it the other day, but 
she wouldn’t. I suppose it has — ” 

“ Yes,” Mother nodded, and said no more. 


24 


ELIZABETH BESS 


“ Has what? ” Lizabeth Bess sat up in bed, and 
almost shouted the question. Almost, but not quite : 
she was early learning by experience, and again she 
remembered the “ eavesdropper ” incident in time I 

“ Mother,” said Sara, “ mayn’t I take Bess to 
school to-morrow? Ruby Taylor’s been bringing 
her little sister, and she isn’t half as cute as our 
baby, but everybody made a fuss over her. Do let' 
me, Mother I ” 

“ Why, Sara, she has nothing to wear I I haven’t 
made up her new delaines yet, and she’s outgrown 
nearly everything she has,” Mother objected. 

“ If you say she can go I’ll shorten up that little 
plaid silk skirt of mine, and there’s a little old Gari- 
baldi waist in the bureau drawer that I know will 
fit her! ” urged Sara eagerly. “ Just you let me fix 
her up, and you’ll see! ” 

So it came to pass on a fine Spring day that Eliza- 
beth Bess, feeling like a princess, went to school for 
the first time in all the splendour of a gay, plaid silk 
skirt, white “ Garibaldi ” waist, black Congress gait- 
ers, striped stockings, and a white leghorn hat, 
trimmed with pale, pink China asters. Until she was 
grown up, she never thought of that hat without a 
thrill. And for a crowning glory — there was a tiny 
blue parasol with a white handle that sported a shiny, 
white knob on the end. 

Little Sylvia Taylor, about the child’s size, was 
proudly going to school with her big sister, and after 
some shy and furtive scrutiny of each other, the two 
tots joined hands, and walked along together. 


“AND ALL IS VANITY I” 25 

Sylvia, however, was no novice in the ways of 
life. 

“This your first day at school?” she inquired 
patronisingly, and her new friend humbly admitted 
that it was. 

“ Oh, my ! Why, I’ve been ten million times ! ” 
declared Sylvia. 

“ You’d better look out, if it’s your first day,” she 
added darkly. 

“ W-why ? ” faltered Elizabeth Bess. “ Why had 
I better? ” 

“ Oh, because I Lots of things happen the first 
day that don’t never happen again,” Sylvia averred 
with unchildish wisdom. 

“ I ain’t afraid! ” the little one bragged, growing 
bold. “ My sister, and my big brover Wee-um won’t 
let anything touch me 1 ” 

Sylvia looked around at the tall girl walking with 
her own sister; then ahead to where William was 
walking with some other boys, and for some occult 
reason she snickered. Then she remarked: 

“ Well, I guess if a great, big, black bear’d come 
walkin’ in the school house, and eat up the teacher, 
’n’ all the scholars, I wonder where your sister, an’ 
your ‘ big brover,’ ” (this with an exceedingly scorn- 
ful accent) “ would be then I ” 

Lizabeth Bess waited for Sara and took her hand. 
“I — I guess I want to go home, Sara,” she whis- 
pered with trembling lips. 

“ Why, Bess, what’s the matter? ” Sara asked in 
alarm. 

The child was silent, whereupon Ruby’s sharp eyes 


26 


ELIZABETH BESS 


sought Sylvia’s. “ What have you been saying to 
Bess, you naughty girl, you?” she demanded. 
“ What did she say to you, Bess? Tell me I ” 

“ She said — she said a big, black bear’d walk in 
the school, and eat up the teacher, and everybody! ” 
sobbed Bess. 

“ 0-oh 1 I didn’t say no such a thing I I said, if 
a big bear’d walk in I And she’s an old cry-baby, and 
a ’fraid-catl ” exploded Sylvia, and declared that she 
was going home 1 That she wouldn’t walk another 
step with her I But after a while, peace was made, 
and the two were walking hand-in-hand again. 

Since it was not the epoch-making First Day for 
Sylvia she was clothed in her everyday garments, in- 
cluding a Shaker bonnet; of which, in the neighbour- 
hood of the china-astered hat, she was a little bit 
ashamed. Now she furtively slipped it off, and was 
carrying it behind her, when her companion made a 
great discovery. 

“ Oh, you have earrings I ” cried the child. “ Did 
they — did they have to stick a needle in your ears ? ” 

“ Of course they did! ” laughed the sophisticated 
one. Then — “ Haven’t you had your ears pierced, 
yet? ” The question seemed to Bess to imply such 
an unpardonable remissness, that she could not an- 
swer. She drew the china-astered hat down over her 
shamed face and shook her head. 

“ Did Miss Lois do it? ” she asked, emerging at 
length. 

“ Miss Lois Horton? No, indeed! My mother 
did it.” 

So! Her mother did it! That was different. 


AND ALL IS VANITY! 


27 


If a mother did it, it couldn’t be so very awful. She 
would think about it I 

Somehow, Miss Lois, as teacher, seemed an alto- 
gether different person from the Miss Lois who ran 
in to see Mother every other day. Bess’s feelings 
regarding the “ Little Quaker Lady ” had been de- 
cidedly mixed of late. When she had driven the 
needle and thread through Sara’s ears the little sister 
felt that she hated her I 

But, that very night. Mother had said she was “ a 
dear girl,” and Mother’s veracity, be it known, was 
as unimpeachable as the Bible’s, or Father’s. Then 
followed that other bewildering statement, that Miss 
Lois “ might have been her daughter.” Now, how 
could it be possible for Mrs. Horton’s daughter to 
be Mother’s daughter? 

Elizabeth Bess could not fathom these mysteries. 
One fact she held to staunchly — Mother’s infalli- 
bility; she could do or say no wrong! 

Miss Lois as teacher, was a revelation. She cer- 
tainly had the kindest eyes, the prettiest light, fluffy 
hair, the whitest hands. She kissed the new pupil, 
and said she was glad to see her in school, and then 
Elizabeth Bess capitulated. 

With the advent of Spring, the school membership 
had dwindled to the minimum, the older pupils hav- 
ing to help on the farm and in the house, and school 
matters reached a dead level of monotony. But to 
little Bess, it was one of the most exciting days of her 
life. 

To be in a real school, sitting at a real desk, and 
surcharged with the school atmosphere! Several 


28 


ELIZABETH BESS 


times she shut her eyes tight, expecting to open them 
in bed at home, and find that she had been dreaming. 
Then, in an ecstasy, she would say her A B C’s faster 
than her finger could follow them on the page. But 
after the noon recess, she laid her head on her little 
desk, and slept. Whereupon Miss Lois made a bed 
of coats on the long back seat, and laid her new 
pupil down on it, where she broke all records by 
sleeping until school was dismissed at four o’clock. 

“ Mother,” said the child, as the last curl was be- 
ing tucked inside the little dotted Swiss nightcap that 
night, “ Mother, you may stick a needle into my 
ears.” 

“ 0-oh, child, I couldn’t ! ” and Mother recoiled. 

“Well, then, Sara will. Sara, you may — ” 

“0-o-ohI I couldn’t!” cried Sara, clapping her 
hands over her own little pink hearers. “ I never 
could do it in the world, Bess 1 ” 

“ Then, how am I ever going to wear my new 
earrings that Cousin Winnie brought me? I’d like 
to know? ” 

“ Oh, do you want to wear them? ” 

“’Course I want to wear ’em! Sylvie Taylor 
wears hers I ” 

“ Then you’ll have to get Miss Lois to do it; she 
knows just how, and I don’t,” said Mother, whereat 
the prospective subject’s countenance fell. And at 
that moment, who should come in but Miss Lois her- 
self, at which the prospective subject’s countenance 
fell still farther. 

“ We were just speaking of you! ” Sara told her; 


AND ALL IS VANITY!” 


29 


“ Bess wants me to pierce her ears, but I know I 
never could do it. I’d stick the needle into a dozen 
places, instead of two 1 ” 

“Too bad!” condoled Miss Lois. “Now she 
never can wear the pretty, gold earrings! ” 

“ We thought maybe you would do it, Lois,” 
Mother ventured. 

“ Oh, no, I never pierce anybody’s ears unless they 
ask me themselves. And besides, you know Bess 
said I shouldn’t. I came in to see if you could lend 
me a couple of yeast cakes, Mrs. Bradford. It takes 
such a lot of bread to go the rounds of our family.” 
She sat down in a rocking chair, and took up a book 
while Mother went to get the yeast cakes. Sara, too, 
left the room for something, and the Wee One 
seized the opportunity to ask, “ Wouldn’t it do if 
Mother asked you. Miss Lois? ” 

“No, indeed! ” 

“ Nor Sara, neither? ” 

“ Nor Sara, either. Everybody must ask for her- 
self, and must promise not to cry, too.” 

The little one went back, and sat down in her 
rocking chair. Mother came in with the yeast cakes, 
and Lois, saying that she must hurry, was about to 
go, when a determined little figure in nightgown and 
cap, blocked her way. 

“ Please, Miss Lois,” she whispered, as the girl 
bent to her. “ Please you do it. And I’ll promise 
not to cry ! ” 


CHAPTER IV 


WHEN THE OLD GONG BLEW 

F ather was going to town, and William and 
Bess were to “ mind the cows ” in his absence. 
Which meant that the cows must be kept on 
the grass, and off the young rye In the North Lot. 

“ And you’ll have your hands full with them to- 
day, Boy,” Father told him. “ The grass is getting 
pretty short, and they’ll be crazy to get on the rye. 
By noon they’ll have had their fill, and when the Old 
Gong blows, you can bring them home, and have the 
afternoon to yourselves.” 

“ And be sure you bring us home some popcorn 
balls — the pink kind,” his little daughter told him. 

“ And don’t forget to stop at the post office,” was 
Mother’s direction. “ You forgot last time, you 
know.” 

“ Yes, I’ll stop at the post office. And you shall 
have the popcorn, Bess,” he promised, and was gone. 

Now one of Bess’s favourite occupations was mind- 
ing the cows — with William, of course. Any work 
or play In his company was delightful, but this stood 
out pre-eminent; for she had a playhouse in every 
field, and made it her headquarters In the Intervals of 
leisure. 

But from seven till twelve is a long stretch for a 
five-year-old, and the child often longed to hear the 
30 


WHEN THE OLD GONG BLEW 31 

Old Gong’s deep note hours before It was due. This 

Old Gong,” a powerful factory whistle, was an in- 
stitution, especially among the farmers, who, for 
miles around, religiously set their clocks by it. The 
sun might err — the Old Gong never 1 

That day, William had a book inside his blouse. 
It was “ The Swiss Family Robinson.” Conse- 
quently, he had scant word or look for his little sis- 
ter, after giving her a long switch and her orders : 

“ You keep them off the lower end of the Rye, 
Bess, and I’ll keep ’em off the rest.” That was all; 
but the child knew her duty, and she did it like a 
man I 

At first her long, lithe whip kept the cows In place ; 
but they were so eager for the tender, young rye 
that she was kept busy chasing them, and her short 
legs soon grew tired. 

She was to go to the house for their luncheon at 
half-past nine, and by half-past eight she began ask- 
ing, 

“ Wee-um, isn’t it most lunchtime? Isn’t it lunch- 
time yet? ” until William lost patience. 

“ Oh, go on home and get your lunch — and stay 
there, if you want to!” he told her. “I’ll mind 
the cows myself — might just about as well!” so 
Elizabeth Bess started slowly homeward, her head 
drooping, and her old “ Shaker ” dangling by one 
string. 

Frowning, William looked after her, and as she 
ducked under the bars at the road, he called, “ Oh, 
say, Bess! ” But she made no sign. 

“ Oh, well, let her go home if she wants to,” he 


32 


ELIZABETH BESS 


grumbled to himself. “ But I betcher she’s crying. 
Bet a cent she is! And now she won’t come back, 
and I’ll have to stay here and starve till noon I Darn 
it! ” said William. But truth to tell, he was think- 
ing more of the dejected little figure with the dan- 
gling sunbonnet than of his lost luncheon. 

One of the cows was nosing near and nearer the 
rye, and he made such a furious dash at her that the 
whole herd took to their heels. Whereupon Wil- 
liam again betook himself to the Swiss Family Robin- 
son. 

These charming castaways had just completed 
their house in the tree, and were about to ascend the 
ladder for their first night aloft (William in the 
lead, so real it seemed), when a voice behind him 
startled him so that he fell back to earth with a 
thud. 

“Well! I wonder what Fa-ther’d say, if he saw 
Meg and Cherry eatin’ up the rye ! ” said the voice 
scathingly. 

William was instantly humble, the more so since 
his sister bore in one hand a diminutive basket cov- 
ered with a napkin, and, in the other, a little tin 
pail. 

On his return, red-faced, from his chase of Meg 
and Cherry, he found that Elizabeth Bess had ad- 
journed to her “ house ” under the twin cedars by 
the stone wall, and had ceremoniously spread out on 
the napkin two slices of gingerbread, two biscuits and 
two apples. A minute cup of cocoa flanked each 
portion. The table was a large flat stone on top 
of the low wall. 


WHEN THE OLD GONG BLEW 33 

“ Why, Lizabeth Bess I ” exclaimed William, after 
a glance at the feast, stopping on his way to it long 
enough to give his sister a bear hug. “ You waited 
to eat your lunch with me, didn’t you? ” 

“ ’Course I did I ” She wriggled away frowning; 
but her downcast eyes were beaming with joy. 
With the air of a little duchess she poured more cocoa 
and waited upon William, then nibbled her own por- 
tion daintily, little finger extended. 

When the repast was finished, William, observing 
a tendency to droopiness in his small sister’s eyelids, 
said to her, 

“ Sleepy, aren’t you, Bess? Yes, you are, too. 
Wait till I spread out my jacket, and you can take 
a little nap. The cows are not so hungry now, and 
won’t bother much, I guess. I’ll call you when it’s 
time,” he added, as she smiled up at him sleepily. 

“ You be sure and call me when the Old Gong 
blows, Wee-um? ” 

“ Y-e-s! before that. You’ll have to help me to 
get the cows together.” Thus assured, Elizabeth 
Bess closed her eyes, and went happily to sleep in 
the shade of the little cedars. 

She had slept but a little while — a bare half hour 
— when an enormous bumble-bee came booming 
across the field, and, attracted by the remains of 
molasses cake on the sleeper’s countenance, paused 
for an instant above it, but his buzz-wheel kept on 
going. So great was the volume of sound assailing 
her ear-drum at short range, that the child awoke 
with a bang! 

“Wee-um! Wee-um!” she called, running to 


34 


ELIZABETH BESS 


meet him. “Turn the cows out, quick I The Old 
Gong’s Mowed! ” 

“ W-h-a-t’s the matter with you?” scornfully 
drawled William. “ ’Tain’t half an hour since we 
had our lunch. You’re out of your head, you are ! ” 
“ Oh-h 1 I ain’t, either 1 The Old Gong has 
Mowed, Wee-um — I heard it, just this minute! ” 

“ All right! Here comes Chinney down the road 
— we’ll leave it to him. You run and ask him if it’s 
dinner-time. He’ll tell you ! ” 

“ Oh, Chinney, wait! ” called the child as she ran. 
And Chinney came to the bars, his rosy face wrin- 
kling with pleasure at the sight of her. 

“ I want you to tell me,” she panted, “ hasn’t the 
Old Gong Mowed? Isn’t it dinner-time? ’Cause 
Wee-um he says it isn’t! ” 

The little man cast a knowing squint at the sun, 
still more than an hour from the meridian. “ Land, 
yes!” he said, drawing a long face. “The Old 
Gong Mowed four hours ago. Wee One! ” and he 
went off chuckling to himself, with a backward glance 
at a speechlessly indignant William. 

“Think you’re smart, don’t you?” the latter 
jeered when he found his voice. “ You just wait, 
you miser’ble old bricktop, and see if I don’t get 
even with you. You just wait ! ” 

And — “ ’Twon’t be the first time, if you do ! ” 
thought Chinney, remembering sundry practical jokes 
of which he himself had been the victim. 

Bess had listened, wide-eyed, scandalised — that a 
boy — her boy — should address such words to a 
man, and that man, Chinney — her dear Chinney! 


WHEN THE OLD GONG BLEW 35 

For the second time that day, William turned to 
her in irritation. ‘‘ Ah, go on home ! ” he cried. 
“ You may as well. I’ll not have any more peace, 
now.” And also for the second time the child, hurt, 
turned slowly homeward, her brimming eyes fixed 
upon the ground. 

Already repentant, William looked after her. 
“ Darn that old redhead I ” he said with heat, and 
ground his teeth together. Casting about for a way 
to recall his sister without lowering his dignity, he 
noticed that a young heifer which had been giving 
trouble all the morning was again encroaching upon 
the rye. So he called out pleasantly, as if nothing 
had happened, 

“ Oh, Lizabeth Bess! Chase that heifer off the 
rye, won’t you? You’re the nearest! ” 

Delighted to be restored to favour, the junior part- 
ner forgot her droop, and, grasping her switch 
firmly, ran back to turn the heifer. But the animal, 
instead of running, stood its ground, and, with low- 
ered head and bulging nostrils, watched the advanc- 
ing child. 

Bess had no more fear of a cow than of a chicken. 
It was anger at the creature’s audacity that caused 
her to raise her voice in shrill command, thus calling 
William’s attention to the situation. In another sec- 
ond he was bounding down the field, alternately call- 
ing to his sister to run ! and yelling — shrieking — 
at the now enraged animal. 

So intent was Bess, that she did not heed, even 
if she understood, William’s warning. It was not 
until she was within a few paces of the heifer, now 


36 


ELIZABETH BESS 


bawling sonorously and pawing up the turf, that she 
stopped, frightened, and turned to run to William. 

But she was too late, and William was still too far 
away. Quick as lightning the cow lurched forward, 
caught the child on her horns, and tossed her into the 
air. 

Elizabeth Bess gave one scream as the heavens 
bent to meet her, and another as the earth rose up 
to catch her. It caught her hard, and everything 
went out in darkness. 

William, with wild sobs and blinding tears, 
caught up the little unconscious form, and ran, 
stumbling and staggering, down to the road fence. 
Here Chinney, who had come hurrying back, met 
William, and scarcely less heart-broken than he, took 
his burden from him. A little stream of blood was 
dribbling from the corner of her mouth, and man and 
boy were certain that the Wee One was either dead 
or dying. 

“ Turn out the cows into the road; I’ll carry her,” 
said Chinney. And William, his animosity forgot- 
ten, obeyed. Crops must be safeguarded, though 
the heavens fall, or the people die ! 

He caught up with Chinney at the house gate, just 
as Father drove up in the other direction. 

It was the little grandmother, long considered 
rather more ornamental than useful, who now rose 
to the occasion. Coming into the kitchen, she pushed 
aside the stricken group about Mother’s chair and 
took the Wee One from her arms. Forcing the lit- 
tle jaws apart, she cast a keen glance into the bleeding 
mouth. 


WHEN THE OLD GONG BLEW 37 

“Get me some camphor and hot water I” said 
Gran. “ She sank these two teeth into her lip when 
she fell — that’s where the blood comes from I ” 

The little one opened her eyes just as the Old 
Gong rumbled out its noonday message. It might 
well have been it that roused her. Slowly she raised 
herself on Gran’s lap, and slowly her eyes roved from 
one to another, until they fell upon Chinney and 
fixed him with a reproachful stare. 

“ Chinney,” she said with portentous solemnity, 
“ Chinney, you told me a story! ” 

When, after a while, the family could think of 
other things than the little one’s accident, Father 
said, “ By the way, Anne, I have a letter for you. 
It’s done some travelling! It was addressed to 
Marion, Illinois, and has been to all the other Mar- 
ions, I guess, from its looks.” 

Mother took the letter eagerly — she all but 
snatched it from Father’s hand, and tore it open with 
trembling fingers. She had been waiting for it so 
long! 

Those watching her, saw her expression gradu- 
ally change, from eager hope, all the way down the 
gamut to blank disappointment, not to say despair. 
Then, without a word, she handed the letter to Fa- 
ther, and left the room. This is what he read : 

Chicago, January 14, 186-. 

Dear Madam: 

Yours of the 8th inst. at hand. I have made inquiries re- 
garding the young soldier you mention, who helped to save 
some people at a fire here last month. 


38 


ELIZABETH BESS 


Beyond what the newspapers told of him at the time I 
can learn but little. He told the reporter, who, by the way, 
found him quite normal in every way except for his loss of 
memory, that he had found himself in a hospital in a Penn- 
sylvania town several years ago, with all his past an abso- 
lute blank to him. They told him that he had been brought 
there after the battle of Gettysburg, wounded; that he had 
been a Northern soldier, as his blue uniform showed, and 
that w’as all. 

He told the reporter here that he stayed in one place only 
long enough to earn money with which to travel further, 
seeking his home or some one who knew him; and shortly 
after that he disappeared. This, to my regret, is all that I 
can tell you about him. 

I remain, my dear Madam, Very truly yours, 

, Mayor. 


CHAPTER V 


ELIZABETH BESS GOES CALLING 

BARNABY is one, Mrs. Truman 
\/| two, Mrs. Reade three, Mrs. Burnham 

-L T -1. four, Mrs. — the others, five, six,” 
counted Mother. 

“What others. Mother? What others?” 
queried her small daughter, who also was going call- 
ing. 

“ Never you mind. Are you all ready? ” Mrs. 
Bradford surveyed her youngest chick with a critical 
eye. “Why, yes; Sara has decked you out very 
prettily.” Mother threw a bright glance at the big 
sister, who felt herself amply repaid. 

“ Are you going to call on that Mrs. Burnham, 
Mother?” Sara asked with a little frown. “I 
wouldn’t! Linnie Taft says she always opens the 
side door when she sees folks coming, so’s she won’t 
have to put up the parlour shades and fade the car- 
pet. Anybody as stingy as that I ” 

“Nonsense!” scoffed Mother. “That’s just 
spiteful talk.” 

“ Well, anyway. Burr McCauley says there isn’t 
one of the Burnham family hut’ll squeeze a cent till 
the Indian hollers ! ” Sara inelegantly quoted. 

“ Sara Bradford ! To think of a big girl like you 
39 


40 


ELIZABETH BESS 


repeating such silly gossip ! ” Mother was as much 
irritated by the word “ holler,” which she detested, 
as she was by the gossip. “ If it were Bess now I — ” 
whereat Bess straightened herself, and felt very vir- 
tuous indeed. 

But — squeezing a cent till the Indian hollered! 
— How could an iron Indian holler ? She would see 
about it, though; she guessed she could squeeze as 
hard as anybody! In her apron pocket was a cent 
that Father had given her that morning; while 
Mother was tying her bonnet strings, Bess ran and 
got the coin. Furtively she squeezed it between lit- 
tle thumb and forefinger, but there was no result. 
A little harder ! But not a sound came from the In- 
dian. Further in the way of compression she dared 
not go, for if the Indian emitted anything more than 
the merest squeak she felt that she would be scared 
all to pieces ! . . . Ah, but she knew what she would 
do ! 

“ Come, dear ! ” called Mother from the porch, 
and, slipping the coin into her coat pocket, the inves- 
tigator came. 

A sense of high elation possessed the prospective 
caller, sitting in state beside her mother in the new 
“ top buggy.” This was no ordinary occasion. But 
once or twice before had the little girl journeyed 
along the straight, prim village “ Street,” lined on 
either side with straight, prim houses over which 
rows of straight, prim poplars stood sentinel. 

The Bradfords, living in the farming district, away 
from the little settlement, were nearer to the city of 
Marion; and there they went to church and on busi- 


ELIZABETH BESS GOES CALLING 41 

ness. There they got their mail. There, too, their 
relatives lived — Aunt Eunice and Uncle Dan’l, and 
Cousin Marcia Milward. So that it was only on 
these ceremonial trips that the village part of Green 
Hills revealed itself to the little girl. 

However, as she progressed, the sense of elation 
became more and more subdued. The big houses, 
mostly white with green blinds (as were the two 
slender-spired churches that faced each other across 
the Green) and great chimneys rearing themselves 
above the gables, seemed to be challenging the trav- 
ellers. The effect of opulence and progress, ex- 
pressed most strongly by the “ silver ” door knobs 
and bell pulls, oppressed Elizabeth Bess. True, 
Aunt Eunice’s door in Marion sported these modern- 
ities; but the Bradford door, with its iron knocker 
and handle, was painfully old-fashioned and ple- 
beian I 

Around the corners in the few cross streets — 
shouldered aside, as it were, by their aristocratic 
white neighbours, occasional old red houses obtruded 
themselves protestingly. Again, here and there, a 
sad grey domicile shrank behind its crowding lilacs, 
now all in lovely bloom. Bess felt sorry for the sad, 
grey houses, huddled under their drooping roofs like 
poor old women under faded shawls I 

‘‘ Here we are, dear! ” Mother’s voice broke in 
like music upon these drab communings, as the horse 
drew up before a big, square house, with hip roof 
and inside shutters. Next to silver door knobs, in- 
side blinds were the hallmark of gentility! “ Who 
lives here? ” Bess whispered, as Mother lifted her 


42 


ELIZABETH BESS 


down. “ This is Mrs. Barnaby’s,” Mother whis- 
pered back. “ She’s very nice — you’ll like her I 
And Mr. Barnaby is a very clever man — he is writ^ 
ing a book.” From the way Mother said it, her 
little daughter judged that she considered this a great 
achievement. 

“Writing a book, Mother?” she repeated. 
“Oh! You mean a writing book.” Sara had a 
writing book wherein, through the medium of dainty 
script, one was admonished to 

“ Trust no future, howe’er pleasant — 

Let the dead past bury its dead 1 ” 

“ No, no, child ! A real book — a story book.” 

“Mother Bradford!” gurgled Lizabeth Bess, 
“ What are you thinking of? Folks don’t write real 
books — they print ’em ! ” 

“ I stand corrected, dear ! ” laughed Mother. 

Mrs. Barnaby, a very pleasant little lady, herself 
opened the door for her callers. After a few min- 
utes’ chat she left the room, returning presently with 
a tray on which were cakes and lemonade. 

“ Both my maids are out,” she explained. “ Mr. 
Barnaby has about reached the crisis of his book, and 
he says the girls disturb him, talking, and running up 
and down stairs. And even I have to be on my good 
behaviour ! He’s so sensitive that I tell him he’s a 
trial to himself and everybody else at such times,” 
confided the lady, with ill-concealed pride. 

“ One of the penalties of greatness ! ” laughed 
Mother. “ But to be the wife of a genius should 
atone for many things.” 


ELIZABETH BESS GOES CALLING 43 

“Oh, it does!” agreed the genius’s wife, so in- 
genuously that Bess, attentively regarding Mother, 
caught a twinkle in her eye. 

“ But Mr. Barnaby will want to see little Bess — 
he is very much interested in children : his next book 
is to be about them,” remarked the lady, with the 
complacency of the young woman doctor who 
boasted, “ Oh, yes ! I know all about babies — I’ve 
dissected dozens of them ! ” 

Just before they left the genius was graciously 
pleased to receive the visitors; and it was with a feel- 
ing between amusement and exasperation that 
Mother noted the palpable appraising of her off- 
spring, and the efforts made to draw her out. The 
child, however, refused to furnish material for 
“ copy.” “ Yes, sir,” and “ No, sir! ” was all that 
the bookmaker could extract from her. 

Mrs. Barnaby, who liked little Bess, wanted to 
make her a present. She told her to go to a book- 
case, and take from it any book she chose. Not dar- 
ing to look a gift horse in the mouth, the little girl 
extracted a dainty small affair of blue and gold that 
should, according to the laws of proportion, have 
held a pretty story. The elders, chatting together, 
failed to notice further. But when in the privacy of 
the top buggy the beneficiary examined it, behold 1 its 
leaves were blank. There was not a word in or on 
it except the one word — “ Album.” 

Had Bess’s vocabulary been equal to her discern- 
ment, “ conservative ” would be the word she would 
have used to describe the next hostess, Mrs. Winslow 
Truman. Indeed, she seerhed to embody the atmos- 


44 


ELIZABETH BESS 


phere of the neighbourhood, and that was conserva- 
tive — sometimes abridged to spell “ narrow.” 
While they would have indignantly denied the im- 
peachment, the latter-day slogan, “ We are the peo- 
ple,” fitted the attitude of the average New Eng- 
lander of that time to a nicety. 

The callers were hardly seated before Mrs. Wins- 
low Truman asked Mrs. Bradford, with concern, if 
she knew that “ a French-Canadian family with a 
whole raft of children had bought the Jonas Baildon 
farm?” And when Mother answered that new 
blood was a good thing for a community, and that the 
newcomers seemed to be intelligent, respectable peo- 
ple — “ But foreigners! ” the lady almost snorted. 

“ You must remember, my dear Mrs. Truman, 
that you and I — or our forebears — all were for- 
eigners once,” Mother reminded the irate lady. 

“But have you heard them talking their lingo? 
Why, it sounds exactly like a lot of monkeys chatter- 
ing together! They had company Sunday — some 
of the men from the cutlery shop in Marion; and 
as they passed here jabbering! — really, Mrs. Brad- 
ford, they didn’t seem to me like human beings ! ” 

“ Very possibly our ‘ lingo ’ sounds as outlandish 
to them,” Mother defended, the faint colour rising 
in her cheek at this frank exhibition of intolerance. 
“ Their attempts at English are funny, too; but when 
I remember how much smarter than I these foreign- 
ers are — for they can make themselves understood 
in my language, while I can’t speak theirs at all — 
I feel properly humbled, instead of proud.” 


ELIZABETH BESS GOES CALLING 45 

Mrs. Winslow Truman sat silent for half a min- 
ute. “ I never thought of that,” she remarked a bit 
relentingly; but hardened her heart, and returned to 
the charge. “ Well, I’d like to know what you think 
of all the Paddies that are coming amongst us ? You 
can’t go into Marion any more without meeting them 
at every turn ! ” 

You mean the Irish?” asked Mother pointedly. 
“ My opinion is that so long as we didn’t object to 
their joining our armies and helping to win our bat- 
tles it’s rather mean to carp at them now; and that, 
as in the other case, mainly because of their funny 
way of talking.” 

Then Mother’s face began to relax, and the 
twinkle crept back into her eye. 

“ Things are even worse than you think, Mrs. Tru- 
man — the enemy is at our very doors! ” she said 
banteringly. “Not only have the French-Canadians 
invaded Green Hills but an Irish family by the name 
of McKenna has moved onto the Bowles place. I 
understand they’ve bought it. 

“ And according to some of the papers, it’s only 
a question of time before the Negroes will be swarm- 
ing into the State, filling our schools and our churches, 
and our places in business as soon as they’re compe- 
tent to fill them. Oh, there are great changes com- 
ing,” quoth Mother, wiser than she knew, “ and we 
must be prepared to make the best of them! ” 

She rose to go, and her hostess rose also, a gleam 
of indignant apprehension in her eyes. “ I’ve noth- 
ing to say about the schools,” remarked Mrs. Wins- 


ELIZABETH BESS 


46 

low Truman, who was childless; “ but the Blacks will 
never crowd me out of my church — I promise you 
that 1 ” She voiced the sentiment of some of the 
most radical abolitionists: “Free the Negro, but 
don’t free him around me I ” 

Once outside the house. Mother drew a long, deep 
breath. “ Thank goodness, Bess, whatever else your 
mother is, she is not narrow 1 ” she said with em- 
phasis. 

Elizabeth Bess surveyed her parent critically, and 
somewhat sceptically. “ But you are a little narrow. 
Mother,” she told her gently. “ You’re narrower’n 
Mrs. Cone is.” Mrs. Cone was the Bradfords’ 
stout next door neighbour — “ The lady of the Flow- 
ers,” Mother called her, because she was so fond of 
them. 

Mother snuggled her small daughter up to her on 
the buggy seat. “ I’ll have to broaden out then, 
dear,” was all she said. 

There was no one at home at the Reade house, and 
Bess was glad. Calling is pretty tiresome work — 
especially when your hostess pays no more attention 
to you than if you were a graven image I 

At the Burnhams’ a “ parcel ” of children were 
playing in the yard, and the Wee One, after having 
been ushered in at the front door, begged to be 
allowed to play with them. They were singing lus- 
tily, to the tune of “ Tramp, tramp, tramp,” a chorus 
that ran — 

“ Fare you well, my Mary Ann, you must do the best you 
can. 

For ril never jump the bounty any more! ” 


ELIZABETH BESS GOES CALLING 47 

The grim significance of the words — of which the 
singers were happily unconscious — turned Mother 
a little sick. Memory carried her back to a day now 
three or four years past, when one of her neighbours, 
not a “ bounty jumper,” but a deserter, paid within 
her very sight the price of his folly. Plainly, as if it 
were yesterday, she could see two uniformed sol- 
diers coming up the road and climbing the fence into 
the field where Jonathan Titus was planting corn. 
Titus was a conscript, who had left his wife and little 
boys to run the farm in his absence ; but the call of the 
land in the springtime, and the thought of the wife 
and children struggling with the work had proven too 
much for him, so he stole home to help with the plant- 
ing. 

Next before Mother’s eyes appeared Titus’s wife, 
running toward him, and screaming. Looking up, 
Titus saw the approaching soldiers, and he himself 
started to run. The men called to him to halt, but 
he kept on running wildly. Not far, however: two 
shots rang out, and Titus pitched into the furrow and 
lay still, while the “ detail ” put their pistols back in 
the holsters and walked away. 

“ Please let me go play with the child’en, 
Mother! ” teased the child again; and Mother woke 
up, and breathed a prayer of thankfulness that the 
war — the “cruel war” indeed — was over, even 
though its wounds remained open and sore 1 

Mother was saying good-bye at the door, before 
Lizabeth Bess thought of the cent in her pocket. 
Jerking it out, she pressed it into the hand of a little 
Burnham about her own size. “ Squeeze it ! ” she 


48 


ELIZABETH BESS 


commanded, “squeeze it hard!” The youngster 
squeezed until his eyes popped, Bess hopping from 
one foot to the other in the excitement of waiting for 
the Indian’s protest. But Lo never peeped. 

“Come, dear,” Mother called. And — “Give 
me my cent! ” said Bess, holding out her hand for it. 

“ No I You gave it to me! ” the boy protested, 
putting his hand behind him. 

“ 0-o-h ! I did not ! I just lended it to you, to 
see you make the Indian holler! ” cried Bess indig- 
nantly. 

Mother caught the words, and turned in a panic to 
see if the other mother had heard. Fortunately, 
the door had just closed upon her! 

“Elizabeth Bradford!” cried Mother; “come 
here this moment! ” Sniffing and scuffing, and very 
red in the face, Bess obeyed. She wilted completely 
under Mother’s sternly disapproving gaze, and hud- 
dled down in her corner of the seat as old Charlie, 
headed homeward, stepped out like a two-year-old. 
Of course Mother relented, not being made of stone ! 

It was late when they reached home. Mother hav- 
ing gone out of her way to call on the nervous little 
Frenchwoman, who melted into hysterical tears at 
this evidence of the lifting of the social ban which the 
“ Yankees ” had placed upon her. 

And again did Mother go out of her way to knock 
at the door of one of the sad, grey houses, where 
Mrs. McKenna, large and placid and clear-eyed, wel- 
comed her as woman to woman, without a hint of 
obsequiousness. A group of little children, whole- 
somely clean, and one a regular beauty, hovered shyly 


ELIZABETH BESS GOES CALLING 49 

about their mother; while Elizabeth Bess forgot 
everything else in the world when the fat baby, the 
first of the genus she had known, held out its hands 
for her to take it I 

“ Well, Bess, did you have a good time to-day? ” 
Father asked, as the family sat down to the supper 
table. 

“ I would’ve had, only for that bad Burnham boy,” 
she complained alliteratively. 

“ Why, what did he do? ” asked everybody. 

‘‘He took my cent, and wouldn’t give it back! 
He said I gave it to him, but I didn’t. I just lended 
it to him, so’s he could squeeze the Indian. Didn’t 
do any good, though — the Indian never hollered 
once I ” 

Then it was that Father did what the Indian re- 
fused to do, the “ child’n ” following suit. 

“ What’s the matter? ” asked Lizabeth Bess, a bit 
peevishly. “ I think it’s just a story! I don’t be- 
lieve any one could make a iron Indian holler by 
pinching him 1 ” 

“ Right you are, little one,” laughed Father. “ If 
a Burnham couldn’t do it, it can’t be done 1 ” 

“ But he ‘ pinched ’ it all right! ” cried William, 
and went off again. 

His small sister eyed him coldly. When he had 
subsided, she resumed : “ And that man that they 

said was writing a book ! Why, he wasn’t even writ- 
ing in a book ! He was just scribbling on some old 
sheets of paper. I saw him ! ” 


CHAPTER VI 

THE BEST-LAID PLANS ! ” 


1 "^ED at night, is the sailor’s delight!” 
quoted Mother, watching the sunset. “ I 

JL m^do hope it will be bright and pleasant 
to-morrow!” And something in the way she 
said it made the children chorus eagerly, “ Why, 
Mother?” 

“ Oh, we’ve been having so much rain lately, for 
one thing.” 

“ Yes, but what’s the other thing? ” Sara de- 
manded. “ You might as well tell us — you know 
we always find out! ” 

“ You wouldn’t find this out until after it hap- 
pened,” Mother answered her big girl. “ But I 
don’t know that there’s any use in making a secret of 
it. If it’s pleasant, I’m going to take Bess to town, 
and have her picture taken — that’s all.” 

All, indeed! If Mother had said she intended 
to take the child and start for Europe in the morn- 
ing, it would hardly have created more excitement. 
There followed a whirlwind of suggestion as to what 
the subject should wear, whether she looked “ cun- 
ningest ” sitting or standing, looking up or looking 
down, grave or smiling. 

“ Now, aren’t you glad you’ve had your ears 
50 


“THE BEST-LAID PLANS!” 


51 

pierced, so that you can wear your pretty earrings? ” 
Sara asked. Bess’s answer was an equivocal but 
forbidding frown. While the fact of the piercing 
was a distinct triumph for the conventions, it had left 
painful recollections behind. 

Never dawned a fairer morning than that event- 
ful Wednesday. Elizabeth Bess, awake at the ear- 
liest peep o’ day, was finally arrayed in her new 
black-and-white checked silk, with its low neck and 
little puff sleeves. Her gold locket and chain were 
flanked by the ear “ hoops,” and the carnelian ring 
was in place upon her finger. The day of pantalettes 
was happily past, but a dainty lace edging was care- 
lessly (?) allowed to show beneath the short skirt, 
above the little strap slippers and white stockings. 
The china aster hat and blue parasol lay upon the bed 
awaiting their exploitation, and Elizabeth Bess Brad- 
ford was the happiest child in the town. 

“But her hair. Mother! You didn’t get a bit 
nice curl on it!” Sara complained, twisting a lock 
around her finger. “ We want to send a picture to 
Uncle Jim, down in Virginia, and I’d like her to look 
her prettiest.” 

“ Never mind; I’m going to take her to the hair- 
dresser, and have him curl it.” 

“Mother! It’ll cost you fifty cents!” Sara 
warned her parent. 

“ I don’t care if it costs a dollar! ” Mother an- 
swered recklessly. 

When the next door neighbour, Mrs. Cone, the 
owner of the gate not made of pickets, saw the child 
in all the glory of the aster hat and blue silk parasol. 


5 ^ 


ELIZABETH BESS 


she came down the path of the wonderful flower gar- 
den, and stopped the wayfarers. “ Why are we so 
gay, to-day? ” she called. 

“ Bess is going to have her picture taken,” said 
Mother. “ And we’re going to send one down to 
Uncle Jim, in Faginia I ” smiled the little one. 

“ Indeed ! Just wait till I get my shears ! ” She 
hurried into the house, old fat Jack, the dog, wad- 
dling after her, alert and curious. The delighted 
Bess knew what was coming, or thought she did; but 
the magnificence of the “ nosegay ” that Mrs. Cone 
placed in her hands a few minutes later, all but took 
her breath. Peonies, white and pink, interspersed 
with long, drooping sprays of Bleeding Heart, 
formed the center, around which were massed scores 
of little May pinks and Sweet Williams. 

On the wall of Bess’s bedroom hung a picture 
of a lady and a little girl splendidly attired, the 
child’s satin skirt standing out like a circus-rider’s. 
The mother’s taper fingers held open an ornate 
iron gate (a garden stood revealed beyond), and 
the girl carried a great bunch of flowers. Bess’s 
skirt did not stand out like a circus-rider’s: her 
hoop was a modest affair, but her fancy pictured her 
at that moment a perfect replica of the little girl by 
the gate, who was her ideal. It was one of the Great 
Moments of Life I 

As they started on again, the child smiling back at 
Mrs. Cone, Mother noticed a little cloud sailing 
up the eastern sky. Another and another followed, 
overtaking the sun, until in a little while the intervals 
of sunshine were briefer than those of shadow. 


‘‘THE BEST-LAID PLANS! 


53 


“ Make him go faster, William! ” urged Mother. 

As William applied the whip, a clatter of wheels 
and hoofs behind helped to persuade Charlie (who 
did not like to be passed) to accelerate his speed. 
His spurt was in vain, however; one of the Brad- 
fords’ neighbours — Jerry Cowles — galloped his 
horse past them, almost crowding them into the ditch, 
and without giving the least intimation that he knew 
who they were. 

“ Miserable old fire-eater! ” said Mother, as Wil- 
liam got the wagon back into the track. “ I believe 
he’d like to upset us ! ” 

“What’s the matter with him, anyway?” asked 
William angrily. “ What did we ever do to him, 
that he always acts so mean? ” 

“ Nothing whatever, except that your father ad- 
vocated peace, just as Abraham Lincoln advocated it 
— until peace was out of the question. Your father 
was a traitor in his eyes, even after giving his son for 
the Union ! ” Mother spoke with unusual warmth. 

“ And did he — did Jerry Cowles go to the war ? ” 
asked William eagerly. 

“Not he!” answered Mother. “When they 
drafted him, he hired a substitute — young Hiram 
Foster.” 

“ Did he come back? ” asked both children at once. 

“ No, he never came back. He was killed on the 
march with Sherman.” 

“ Well, I’m glad I’m not in that old codger’s 
shoes,” said William. 

“ I don’t envy him myself,” said Mother. “ I be- 
lieve the sun is going to stay out this time — the 


54 


ELIZABETH BESS 


clouds are scattering! ” she remarked hopefully, as 
they entered the town. “ You go to the black- 
smith’s, William, and meet us at the gallery when the 
horse is shod. I guess we’ll be ready by that time.” 

The waiting-room at the little hairdressing “ par- 
lour ” was newly fitted up, with silken hangings shad- 
ing the opaque, ground glass windows, which, by the 
way, might have been made of tin, so far as seeing 
through them went. Mother could not have told 
whether the room grew darker while she waited, or 
whether she imagined it, but when at length Eliza- 
beth Bess — looking as pretty as a picture — was 
lifted down from the high chair, she hurried her out 
into the street, only to find that the sun had retired 
definitely, and that a chilly mist was falling. 

In desperation, hoping against hope, they sped 
down the street to the gallery. Just as they reached 
it, the Old Gong blew for noon, and the photographer 
came out, locking the door behind him. He an- 
swered their questioning glances with a shake of his 
head — a pitying shake, as he noted the little one’s 
finery, and the brave but futile floral display. 

“ Can’t take pictures on a rainy day, Madam,” he 
said blandly. “ Come soon again, when the weather 
is bright and fair.” 

It was a sadly disappointed pair that awaited Wil- 
liam’s coming under the dripping awning. Mother 
told the children it would be better to buy an umbrella 
than get soaking wet, so she left them standing there 
while she went into a neighbouring store. The main 
street of the newlymiade city ran parallel with the 
newly-built railroad, upon which the rear windows 


THE BEST-LAID PLANS!” 


55 

of the stores looked out. A train was pulling out 
from the station nearby, and Mother stepped to the 
window to see it pass. 

As she looked down (the tracks were some eight 
or ten feet below the street level in front) she stag- 
gered back with a little cry that brought the clerks 
running to her with anxious enquiries. One, glanc- 
ing out, had a glimpse of a tall young man standing 
on a car platform and looking uncertainly about, as 
if searching for something. Then the train curved 
around a corner, and he was gone. 

Mother told Father about it upon reaching home, 
but he refused to listen to any such “ foolish notion ” 
as that the young man on the train was his missing 
son. Vainly she cited the case of the soldier in Chi- 
cago who was searching the country for “ some one 
who knew him,” and insisted upon the traveller’s re- 
semblance to Howell and the additional fact of the 
town’s phenomenal growth and the advent of the rail- 
road, since he went away. 

“ You’re letting your imagination run away with 
you, Anne,” Father declared, “ and you’ve got to 
stop it right here! It doesn’t do to believe every- 
thing that’s told you — that fellow in Chicago prob- 
ably had some good reason for being nameless : you 
remember that he disappeared very shortly, when 
people began to question him. No, Anne ; if our boy 
was alive he would have come back to us. As for 
this loss of memory business, I never heard of such a 
thing before, and I don’t take any stock in it at all. 
We must find our happiness in the children that are 
left to us — and be thankful for them. And some 


56 


ELIZABETH BESS 


day, you know — ” he added gently, but when 
Mother put her folded arms on the table, and hid her 
convulsed face upon them, he patted her shaking 
shoulders, and said no more. 


CHAPTER VII 

EXILED I 

C ALAMITY threatened the Round Hill Farm 
house : Sara had been stricken with diphthe- 
ria, and was very ill. 

In the Sixties, there was nothing like the strict 
quarantine of later days in the case of contagious dis- 
ease. “ Keep the other children away from her,” 
the doctor said, and that was all. But with Bess 
this was easier said than done, so banishment was the 
only alternative. 

Father telegraphed to some old family friends liv- 
ing five or six miles away, and promptly the next 
day “ Grandma ” Bayley made her appearance in 
an old-fashioned basket phaeton, drawn by a hollow- 
backed, old white horse. As Lizabeth Bess, burst- 
ing in upon her startled family, graphically described 
it, 

“ Here comes a old lady a-riding in a clothes bas- 
ket! ” 

But when told that she was to go home with the 
old lady — “ on a visit ” — the child balked. Not all 
the resources of the Bayley place, glowingly set forth, 
availed to move her. It was not until the reluctant 
William (at Mother’s instigation) laughed at her 
for a baby, that she succumbed. 

57 


58 


ELIZABETH BESS 


“ Elizabeth Bess, poor little thing — 

Tied to her mammy’s apron string! ” 

jeered William, and set his teeth hard on a 
“ DARN I ” when his sister, in a storm of angry 
tears, declared that she would go away, and not come 
back to play with him no more, never 1 

Later, she relented ; and when William carried her 
out to the “ clothes basket ” chariot, she squeezed 
him so tight as almost to “ cut off his wind,” as he 
told her. And when she had gone, on pretence of 
examining his woodchuck trap, William cut ’crosslots 
to a point where he could see the exile once more. 
At his whistle, she stood up in the phaeton, and 
watched and waved at him until an intervening hill 
— not to mention blinding tears — hid him from her 
view. 

In the hurry of getting off, or maybe for sanitary 
reasons, Elizabeth Bess did not take a single toy with 
her, so, had it not been for a long-forgotten treasure 
chest that Grandma Bayley unearthed in the garret, 
things would have gone hard with her. In this box 
were lovely bits of silks and velvets, jewel-like glass 
buttons, worsted flowers smelling of camphor — and, 
greatest find of all, an ugly, old wooden doll with 
a painted face. With a delighted cry, the child 
pressed the monstrosity to her hungry heart, and the 
day was saved. 

Still — 

It was the afternoon of the fifth day, and Bess was 
sitting on the front stoop, making a dress for old Be- 
linda. Grandma Bayley, who was kindness itself, 


EXILED! 


59 


had given her her choice of the pretty pieces, but it 
was almost impossible to make a selection. There 
were a dozen pretty ones that she wanted, but was 
too shy to ask for. But it was pleasant to “ make 
out” that they were hers — that she was going to 
take them home, and make them into dresses for 
Susie and Rose, the inherited dolls. She had gone 
so far with her pretending as to tie all but two up in 
a little bundle, which she hid away in an old carpet 
bag that hung from a low rafter. 

Needle and garment had dropped from the Wee 
One’s hands, and she sat straining her eyes down the 
road, along which Father might be coming. In fancy 
she could see the old Panama hat and linen duster, 
more beautiful than an emperor’s ermine; and the 
scent of the tobacco smoke in his whiskers 1 Ah, the 
groves of Araby wafted no such perfume I 

All at once, down the road by the corner of the 
woods, the watcher saw a strange thing coming. It 
looked like a little yellow house on wheels with a man 
sitting on top for a chimney! Now the child’s rea- 
son told her that little houses with men for chimneys 
did not go travelling along the roads, and yet — and 
yet, she seemed to remember having seen that same 
outfit before. 

“0-o-o-h! It’s Johnny Mahone, the tin ped- 
lar! ” she cried, jumping up and down. “ Gra’ma 
Bayley ! Gra’ma Bayley — here comes Johnny Ma- 
hone ! ” 

The advent of a tin pedlar may seem a small 
thing to the modern young person, who can walk into 
a Ten Cent Store, and for a dime purchase anything 


6o 


ELIZABETH BESS 


from a doll to a jewelled ring! But there were no 
Ten Cent Stores when Elizabeth Bess was young. 
Consequently, when the tin pedlar called at your 
house, opened up the door of his caravan and let the 
light shine in upon its tinny splendours, not to speak 
of the glassware and crockery, and little brooms with 
beautiful, marbled handles, and little red dustpans, 
and A B C plates ! — ^ 

Nervous chills were creeping up and down the 
child’s spine, as the tin wagon drew near. Would 
Johnny Mahone know her, here so far away from 
home? He was blind in one eye, as well as lame in 
one leg, since “ the war.” If he should take her for 
a stranger and an alien, one to whom shining ABC 
plates were sold, but never given — could she won- 
der at it? But could she bear it? — That was the 
question I 

Johnny Mahone was staring with all the power of 
his single eye as he drew near; another half minute 
would settle it! 

“ Hel-Zo.-' ” he shouted. “ Mrs. Bradford’s little 
girl, as I’m a sinner ! ” Climbing painfully down 
from his high seat, “ What are you doing here, 
sissy? ” he asked, taking her little round chin in his 
hand. 

Elizabeth Bess was so stirred that she could not 
answer. Her brown head drooped over the old doll, 
and a couple of tears splashed upon its painted face. 
So Johnny Mahone, scenting tragedy and respecting 
it, did not press the question. Instead, he threw 
open the door of the little “ house ” with a flourish, 
and reaching in, brought forth an A B C plate — a 


EXILED I 


6i 


little tin tray with the complete alphabet stamped 
around its edge. 

“ The very last one — I was saving it for you I ” 
He gave it as one presenting the keys of the city on 
a silver salver, and she received it in the same ex- 
alted spirit. 

The tin pedlar, an old neighbour of the Brad- 
fords’ known and liked by everybody in that section, 
put up his horse, and prepared to spend the night at 
the Bayleys’. A chilly wind had come up at sun- 
down, and a wood fire in the big kitchen stove made 
the room very pleasant as, supper over, Grandsir 
Bayley and Johnny Mahone settled themselves to 
talk. The pedlar not only brought the cumulative 
news of the neighbourhood, but he also read the 
papers and kept up with the times. Moreover, he 
had an Irishman’s wit, and so made very acceptable 
company. He was always welcome at the Brad- 
fords’, so now Bess was puzzled to see Grandma, the 
placid, begin fidgeting around, and casting anxious 
glances at the two men. 

Johnny opened the ball by stretching his stiff leg 
out to the fire and rubbing it vigorously. 

“ Gosh! I wish that blame Johnny-reb had this 
bullet in his knee — it aches like all possessed to- 
night,” said he. 

“ Why not wish a little fu’ther — wish ye hadn’t 
gone to war? ” Grandsir enquired tauntingly. 

“ ’Cause it didn’t enter my head,” answered 
Johnny promptly. “ I’d give the whole leg to Uncle 
Sam, if ’twas necessary! ” 

“ The more fool you ! ” said the old man, in a 


62 


ELIZABETH BESS 


way that made the small Elizabeth Bess want to 
throw something at him. “ To resk your life for a 
passel o’ niggers that the hull kit and caboodle of 
ain’t wuth — ” 

“ Now, Silas, for pity’s sake ! ” implored Grand- 
ma ; but the old man had mounted his hobby. 

“ Don’t ye ‘ Now, Silas ’ me,” he went on spunkily ; 
“ no man kin tell me that wholesale murder is 
any holier than retail murder. And Abraham Lin- 
coln — ” 

“ Stop right where you are, Mr. Bayley I ” bristled 
the pedlar. “ No man, old or young, can say any- 
thing against Abe Lincoln to me ! ” 

“ I do’ know as I want to say anything ag’in him ; I 
s’pose he done what he thought was right. But so 
did Jeff Davis do what he thought was right.” 

“ I s’pose war wasn’t murder when he made it! ” 
sneered Johnny. 

“ The South was fightin’ for their homes I ” the old 
man asserted. “ Jeff Davis was as honest a man as 
Abe Lincoln was I Yet those little tykes that spend 
all their wakin’ hours ’round my cider mill, ’ll ‘ Hang 
Jeff Davis on a Sour Apple-tree ’ from mornin’ till 
night. They’ll tramp the apples into pummice, an’ 
hang Jeff Davis higher’n Haman while they’re a-doin’ 
of it. And their parents’ll let ’em. I tell ye, it 
shouldn’t be allowed I Jeff Davis done what he 
thought was right I ” 

“ Well, Abe Lincoln did what he knew was right.” 
The one time Irish schoolmaster and Fenian, to 
whom liberty was more than life, spoke quietly. 

“ There was your great abolitionist, Horace Gree- 


EXILED! 63 

ley, went bail for Jeff Davis. That showed what he 
thought of him! ” triumphed the old man. 

Johnny Mahone was about to give his explanation 
of the incident, when he caught sight of the old lady’s 
worried countenance, and stopped. Drawing a 
newspaper from his pocket, “ Here’s something of 
more interest to you farmers than a war that’s over 
and done with,” he remarked, and began reading 
about a newly organised Grange, one of the first to 
be instituted in the country. 

This Grange movement, then in its infancy, was 
destined to become one of the greatest factors in the 
promotion of social and business activities in the life 
of the American farmer. 

But to the little one, “ Grange ” was a dry subject, 
following the stirring ones of Lincoln and Davis. 
She fell asleep in the midst of it, and Grandma Bay- 
ley carried her off to bed. 

In the morning, the old lady brought out a big bag 
of rags, just as Mother always did; and the pedlar 
weighed them on his great steelyards. Long and 
seriously did she ponder the question of what to take 
in exchange. Half a dozen milk pans came first, 
then an earthen pie-dish. She wavered visibly be- 
tween some fluted tumblers and a new broom ; but in 
the end. New England economy conquered — the 
tumblers were relinquished. 

As Johnny Mahone transferred the rags to his 
own bag, a bright patch of colour caught the Wee 
One’s watchful eye, and also the pedlar’s. 

“ Them’s a couple of old carpet bags that’s been 
hanging in the garret, and catching the dust,” the 


64 


ELIZABETH BESS 


old lady explained. “ They’re not rags, exactly, but 
you’ll get more than rag price for them, I know.” 

“That’s all right. Ma’am! ” Johnny replied, as, 
swinging the bag to the top of the wagon, he pre- 
pared to start. 

At that moment, a fearful thought struck Bess. 
Dropping Belinda, she flew into the house, and up to 
the garret, where her worst fears were realised: her 
carpet bag, with its precious contents, was gone 1 

Down the two flights of stairs she came at break- 
neck speed, and without stopping to answer Grand- 
ma’s questions, rushed out of the gate and down the 
road, a little whirlwind of heels and skirts, in the 
wake of the receding tin wagon. 

The pedlar, who was merrily whistling, “ Oh, 
Willie, We Have Missed You! ” paused to light his 
pipe; which was fortunate, else his pursuer would 
have followed until she fell exhausted. As it was, 
hearing a shrill hail — “Wait, Johnny Mahone!” 
and again, sobbingly, “ 0-h, wa-it, Johnny Ma- 
hone ! ” he turned his wagon around, and drove back 
to meet the child. 

Grandma Bayley, standing at the gate, keeping 
watch of the fugitive lest she vanish, and calling 
wildly for “ Silas! ” now saw the pedlar dismount, 
pull one of the bags off the wagon top, shake out the 
rags, and scatter them with his foot. She was still 
wondering whether the man had suddenly lost his 
mind when, just as Grandsir came running up from 
the orchard, Johnny Mahone refilled the bag and re- 
placed it; swung the little one up on the high seat, and 
started back with her. And the old lady took her 


EXILED! 65 

hand from her throbbing heart, and breathed 
again. 

“ Here she is, Ma’am, right side up with care! ” 
Johnny grinned, as having handed Lizabeth Bess 
down, he again turned his steed, and resumed his 
rendition of “ Willie, We Have Missed You! ” 

Grandma Bayley made a very lenient confessor, 
when the little girl told the story of the recovered 
parcel. 

“ Good land ! child, I meant you to have them ! ” 
said the old lady, stroking some of the pieces with 
reminiscent fingers, and giving a brief history of this 
one and that. 

“Here’s a awful pretty one, Gra’ma Bayley!” 
said Bess, drawing out a bit of white silk ribbon with 
blue and red lettering on it, and a little, flag-shaped 
pin rusted in the hem at the top. “ What does it say 
on it? There’s a U, and an S, and a — ” 

“ Where did you get that, child? ” asked Grand- 
ma, taking it from her with fingers that trembled. 
“ I lost it a long time ago, and never could find it ! 
Where did you get it? ” 

“ Why, it was in with the other pieces. What is 
it, anyway? ” 

“ It — it was my dear boy’s. All his company 
wore them; he took it off his breast and gave it to 
me, the day he went to Mexico,” faltered Grandma 
Bayley. 

“ I didn’t know you had a hoy,^ said Bess gravely. 
“ What did he go to Mex — Mexygo for ? ” 

“ To fight for his country,” answered the old lady 
proudly. “ He went away to the war.” 


66 


ELIZABETH BESS 


“Oh, did he?” cried the child, electrified. 
“ Why, my Howell went away to the war, too I ” 

“ But this was another war. It’s twenty years and 
more since he left me. Let me keep that, and you 
can have all the other pieces.” 

The little girl was doing some rapid counting on 
her fingers. “ My! That’s a long time,” said she. 
“ When did he come back? ” 

“ He didn’t come back.” The old lady put her 
hand up to her face, to hide its quivering. But 
Bess’s eyes were sharp. 

“ Not at all? Didn’t he come back at all, Gra’ma 
Bayley ? ” 

“No; he was reported among the missing after 
the fall of Mexico City, and we never heard from 
him again.” 

“Oh, missing!” repeated the child, greatly re- 
lieved. “ He’ll come back, then, if he’s only miss- 
ing. That’s what Howell is, and he’s coming back. 
But seems to me, Gra’ma Bayley, it’s time your boy 
was coming — twenty years ! Mother says How- 
ell’s been gone ’bout four.” 

Grandma Bayley’s eyes had long been strangers 
to tears; but Bess, with a child’s unconscious heart- 
lessness, had sunk the probe deep. The old lady 
fumbled for her handkerchief, and put it to her eyes. 

“ My boy is dead — he’ll never come back,” she 
said brokenly. 

“But Gra’ma Bayley! When he’s only miss- 
ing ! ” the tormentor persisted. 

“ It’s all the same — all the same ! ” said Grand- 
ma Bayley, rocking slowly back and forth. 


EXILED! 


67 


Elizabeth Bess stood transfixed. She put her little 
hand over her heart, where something seemed to 
hurt. Was it “ all the same ”? Well, it might be 
for Grandma Bayley’s boy, but not for Howell Brad- 
ford: he was coming back! 


CHAPTER VIII 

GRANDSIR GIVES HIS WORD 


ATHER was to have come and taken Llza- 



beth Bess home on the second Sunday of her 


JL exile, but in a letter received the day before 
by the old folks, he stated that, one horse having 
gone lame, and the other being worked out, it would 
be impossible for him to come for a few days longer. 

Of course the little one was terribly disappointed. 
She hid her grief as well as might be, but the pitying 
Bayleys talked it over together, and Grandsir pro- 
posed that they take her home on the morrow. 

“ We haven’t been down to William’s in a coon’s 
age — ’twould do us both good to go. What say 
ye? ” he asked, as his wife kept silent. “ Any ob- 
jections? ” 

“Yes, Silas, I have objections,” the lady replied 
mysteriously. 

“ Out with ’em, then, ’ithout any hemmin’ or 
hawin’ ! ” 

“Well, there’s just this about it, Silas — you’re 
so hot-headed and so outspoken, and get yourself all 
het up so about politics and the war and things, that 
I don’t take a mite of comfort in going out with you 
anymore. There, now — it’s out!” 

“ I sh’d say it was,” replied her spouse drily. 


68 


GRANDSIR GIVES HIS WORD 69 

“ You know it’s so, Silas! Why, the other night, 
I was afraid you and Johnny Mahone’d come to 
blows 1 ” 

“ Shucks 1 ” was Grandsir’s disgusted comment. 

“ It’s the honest truth! — I’d rather stay to home 
than go ; unless you’ll promise me that you won’t get 
into an argument and that you won’t talk politics ! ” 

“All right!” snapped Grandsir, taking up the 
milk pails. “ You can stay to hum then ! ” 

The old man was very angry at this attempted cur- 
tailment of his rights as an American citizen, and 
free speech was the first of these! It was bad 
enough during the war. One well-remembered day 
stood out vividly before him : It was at the railway 
station in Marion, when, after the draft excitement, 
the soldiers were being sent to the front; and “ the old 
rebel,” as he was called by his neighbours, voiced his 
opinions so forciby, that some one in the crowd called 
for “ a rope ! ” The old rebel was no coward, how- 
ever. Taking a dollar from his pocket, he held it up 
before the crowd, daring any man of them to take it 
and buy the rope with which to hang him. The 
sheer audacity of the thing appealed to the Yankee 
sense of humour; and, as luck would have it, Mr. 
Bradford happened along just then, and persuaded 
his old friend to go home with him. 

The streams of milk beat foaming into the tin 
pail under Grandsir’s sinewy hands. . . . To be dic- 
tated to by a female! And yet — Mandy was a 
good woman, according to her lights. And she did 
enjoy visitin’ now and then and he didn’t like to 
make her uncomfortable ! 


70 


ELIZABETH BESS 


By the time the milking was done Mandy’s hus- 
band had done what was for him a remarkable thing 
— he had changed his mind. Just for this once, to 
please her, he would agree to bridle his tongue 1 

Elizabeth Bess did not want to go to Heaven: it 
was Heaven enough to be at home again, sitting in 
Father’s lap after dinner, and smiling sleepily at 
Sara, who was lying on the lounge. Tired after her 
long journey, she was about to succumb, when the 
plebeian knocker sent a challenge through the house ; 
and who should come tripping in but little Mrs. Bar- 
naby, followed by the writer of books, who, his feat 
accomplished, was relaxing, taking time for the 
amenities of life — and incidentally, perhaps, search- 
ing for “ local colour.” 

After a little, the women drew together around 
Sara’s couch, and the men did likewise at the other 
end of the long room. Naturally, politics afforded 
the men an absorbing topic. President Johnson had 
been impeached and acquitted, and the pros and cons 
of his case were discussed with warmth by the two 
younger men. Grandsir took no part in the discus- 
sion, to the astonishment of Father, who knew his 
proclivities so well. One point after another was 
referred to him, only to be answered equivocally. 
Meanwhile the old man fussed and fidgeted, crossed 
and uncrossed his legs, rubbed his hands and 
“ cracked ” his knuckles, and ran his fingers through 
his abundant grey hair. He even had nothing to 
say about the coming presidential nominations; and 
when asked what he thought about Grant as a pos- 


GRANDSIR GIVES HIS WORD 


71 


slble candidate, Grandsir “ guessed he was all right.” 

Then it was that Father was sure his old friend 
was either ill or threatened with dementia, for Grant 
was his bete noir, as McClellan was his hero. 

“Aren’t you feeling well, Mr. Bayley?” Father 
asked. “ You don’t seem like yourself to-day.” 
Grandma, catching the words, cast an anxious glance 
at her spouse, who glared back at her as he twisted 
his tuft of chin whisker into a rope. 

“ Yes, I’m well as usual — well as usual! ” he an- 
swered. 

As was inevitable, with war so recent, some phases 
of it were gone into by the two men — among other 
things, Jeff Davis’s “ perfidy,” and his pardon later 
by the Government. 

“ If I’d had the handling of his case, the rascal 
would never have gone free! ” exclaimed Barnaby. 
Turning to Grandsir, who was a stranger to him — 
“What is your opinion, sir? Don’t you think Jeff 
Davis should have been hanged?” he asked. And 
the old man, his whole being intent upon breaking 
away from this torture, answered vacuously, “ I do’ 
know — I do’ know ! ” 

Lizabeth Bess, still sitting in Father’s lap, and lis- 
tening eagerly to the discussion, now straightened up 
and faced the unfortunate old man. 

“ Why, Grandsir Bayley, you do know ! ” she said 
earnestly. “ Don’t you ’member how mad you was 
the other day ’cause the child’n sung ‘ Hang Jeff 
Davis on a Sour Apple Tree ’ ? You said it ought to 
be stopped. And singing about it isn’t as bad as 
hanging him ! ” 


72 


ELIZABETH BESS 


As the child finished, every eye was fixed on Grand- 
sir, who looked as if he might have a stroke of apo- 
plexy any moment. 

“ Why, er — I guess, mebbe — ” he was flounder- 
ing, when his wife mercifully came to the rescue. 
“ Silas,” said she, “ I free you from your promise not 
to talk politics to-day; I didn’t know it’d be so hard. 
I’m obliged to ye for giving it, but after this, you can 
be your own man ! ” 

“ Sensation ” is the only word that describes the 
brief pause before the elders raised a shout of laugh- 
ter, in which Grandsir himself sheepishly joined. 
Leaning forward, and shaking a finger at the 
child : 

“ Ye little coot, ye! I was jest agoin’ to write ye 
down in my black book 1 ” he told her. ‘‘ But now, 
I guess we’ll call it square 1 ” 

“ Call what square? ” queried the puzzled young- 
ster. ‘‘ I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, 
Grandsir Bayley 1 ” 

Mr. and Mrs. Cheney came in to welcome 
the exile, after the early supper. Chinney had 
settled himself in his recognised “ story-telling ” 
pose, when Father reminded William that the corn 
fodder had not been cut for the cows in the morning. 
“ I remember the time,” Chinney had begun, when 
— Don^t, Chinney — don’t remember it till we get 
back with the corn fodder! ” Bess begged, and Chin- 
ney obeyed. 

To celebrate his small sister’s return William had 
built a new jinricksha. Every few weeks — or 
months, according to the condition of his finances — 


GRANDSIR GIVES HIS WORD 


73 


William would procure a pair of old wheels from 
the blacksmith shop, purchased for “ a song.” 
These would be fitted to an old axle, a drygoods box 
placed atop, and a pair of hickory shafts attached to 
complete the vehicle. The life of a ’ricksha was 
necessarily brief, so Bess was delighted to find a new 
one awaiting her. 

Into the ’ricksha the child climbed. Between the 
shafts William took his place; and off up the road 
they went, Nero running ahead and getting cross-eyed 
in the attempt to keep the goal and the cart con- 
stantly in sight. No previous ’ricksha had ever at- 
tained such speed, and the passenger kept her mouth 
shut tight, not to bite off the tip of her tongue when 
they jumped the “ thank-ye-ma’ams.” 

It was William’s province to cut the fodder, which 
his sister piled into the cart. She was proudly “ keep- 
ing up with ” William when the sickle suddenly cut 
too wide a swath. With a scream Bess tumbled in 
a little heap, and her brother saw her hair all wet with 
blood. 

Terrified at the sight, William forced his trembling 
arms to lift her into the cart; and the little cavalcade 
started for home in sad contrast to the joyous party 
that had left it a little while before. 

“ Don’t cry so, Bess — don’t cry so I ” he kept 
begging; but the little one thought it was the last of 
her, and she wasn’t going to die unheard ! 

Mother met them outside the gate, and hurried the 
victim into the lamplight, which showed the chestnut 
curls all matted and gory. 

“ Oh, I didn’t know she was so near — and the 


74 


ELIZABETH BESS 


sickle hit her on the head I ” mourned William, when 
they questioned him. 

Lizabeth Bess, who loved to be fussed over and 
sympathised with, was revelling in attentions when 
she heard Father say, “ Come with me, sir. I’ll teach 
you to be more careful ! ” She knew that their des- 
tination was the wood-shed. Pushing aside Mother 
and the basin, she sat upright in Gran’s lap. 
“No!” she screamed. “You shan’t teach him. 
Father — you shan’t! I won’t have him teached! ” 

“ Let me look at that cut,” said Chinney. He 
lifted the matted hair, and gently separated the lips 
of the wound with thumb and finger. “ Why, 
ma’am, it’s nothing! ” he assured Mother. “ A dig 
in the scalp always bleeds like a stuck pig. This is 
barely more than skin deep ! ” 

“ Here, boy — empty this basin, and bring some 
clean water.” When William had gone out, Chin- 
ney turned to Father: 

“ Let the boy alone, man ! ” said he. “ He’d give 
his right hand for that baby, and he feels bad enough 
now. Let him alone ! ” 

It was very disconcerting to be told that her acci- 
dent was “ nothing! ” But the service to William 
outweighed the slight to herself. Bess had long felt 
that Chinney did not like William, but that belief was 
now dispelled: Chinney had shown himself a man 
and brother I 


CHAPTER IX 

CONFIDENCES 


T he winter term of school was over, and the 
“ Little Quaker Lady ” was enjoying her 
freedom — if freedom it could be called, be- 
ing simply a change of occupations. One lovely 
afternoon in the late Spring she was sitting at her 
window, finishing a dress for Sally, when to her sur- 
prise, she saw little Bess Bradford running up the 
road as fast as her short legs could carry her. 

Not that there was anything surprising in a visit 
from that young lady, for, since the advent of pleas- 
ant weather, Bess Bradford and little Bertha Horton 
had spent a good deal of their time together, some- 
times at one house, sometimes at the other. What 
surprised Lois was the fact that it was about sun- 
down, and that the two little girls had said good- 
bye for the day, and parted, but a brief half hour 
before. And here was Bess coming “ as if she’d 
been sent for ” ; moreover, it was evident that she 
had been crying, and that the tears were still very 
near. 

Thinking that something must be wrong at home, 
and that she had come with a message, Lois was 
about to hail her; but Bess shortened sail, so to 
speak, on entering the yard, and began looking 
75 


ELIZABETH BESS 


76 

around as if searching for something. She went into 
the little old summer house, where she and Bertha 
had lately played, and moved all the dolls’ furni- 
ture and looked under it, and under the seats and 
table. The grape arbour, and the well-house were 
next searched, but to no avail, as evidenced by the 
lifting of a corner of a new blue gingham apron to 
Bess’s brimming eyes. As her pupils would have 
told you, “ Miss Lois ” was tender-hearted, and so 
she waited for no more, but called down to know 
what was the matter. 

The child lifted a teary face to the window. 
“ C-can I c-come up and tell you, Miss Lois? ” she 
faltered. 

“ Of course you can, dearie I Come in the front 
door, and right upstairs.” 

Lois Horton had a very warm spot in her heart 
for Howell Bradford’s little sister. She would have 
liked to take her up in her arms and kiss her, and 
wipe away her tears, but did not dare. She felt, in 
spite of the partial reconciliation that had preceded 
the last ear “ piecing,” and the skilfulness with which 
that trying operation was performed, that Bess some- 
how did not approve of her. 

“ I came back again. Miss Lois, because I lost 
something.” The little one went direct to the point, 
as soon as she could control her voice. 

“ I thought I saw you looking for something. 
Hurry up, and tell me what it was — it’ll soon be 
dark, so we can’t search.” 

“Oh, I hope we can find it! You see — you 
know — well, we have a picture of my big brother 


CONFIDENCES 


77 


Howell ” (the listener started) “ at our house, and 
I like to take it down and look at it, because I can’t 
look at him — yet. He’s ‘ Missing,’ you know.” 

“He’s what?” asked Howell Bradford’s sweet- 
heart. 

“ It said he’s ‘ Missing after break ’ — ” she began, 
the first impression persisting. “ No: I mean after 
Gettysburg. That means that he hasn’t come back 

— but he’s coming,” she added confidently. 

“ Did Mother tell you about the sholdier in Chick 

— Chickargo that couldn’t remember his name ? 
She didn’t? ” as Lois, her hands shaking so that she 
had to lay down her sewing, faltered a negative. 
“ The paper said he was hit on the head in the war.” 
She went on to tell the story, with eager interest. 
It was good to be able to talk about Howell to some 
one who wouldn’t tell her to “ Hush up ! ” or “ Run 
away and play! ” as had been the case at home, ever 
since Father’s last pronouncement in the matter. 

“ And Mother saw him on the cars — ” 

“What are you saying, child?” cried Lois, her 
face as white as a ghost’s. 

“ She thought she saw him on the cars, the day I 
went to have my picture taken, and didn’t. But Fa- 
ther said it wasn’t him, and that we mustn’t say any 
more about him coming back. I heard them talking 
about it when they thought I was asleep, but I 
wasn’t — ” She broke off hastily, remembering the 
stigma of “ eavesdropper,” and cast an apprehensive 
glance at Lois. 

“ Go on — tell me the rest! ” the girl urged; and 
Bess, relieved that her slip had gone unnoticed, said. 


78 


ELIZABETH BESS 


“ There isn’t any more to go on — only about the 
picture. Miss Lois — I’ve lost it!” 

Lost it I Why, where did you have it, to lose 
it?” 

“ Well, you see — ” the culprit breathed a bur- 
dened sigh — “ I love to look at Howell’s picture, 
so’s I won’t forget how he looked, you know — ” 
(she was a year old when he went away), “ and so’s 
I’ll know him when he comes back. I have to take 
his picture down off the mantel to see it good, and 
to-day — to-day,” she repeated, fingering her apron 
in embarrassment, “Mother was coming, and — 
well — the day I hid the picture in the kitchen table 
drawer, and forgot it. Mother said she’d spank me 
if I took it down again. Mother was coming,” she 
again explained, “ so I just put the picture in my 
little basket, and came on up here to pick straw- 
berries with Burfa. And then it rained, and we 
didn’t go to pick strawberries, and now it’s lost, and 
— Oh! I don’t know what Mother’ll say!” She 
put her head down on Lois’s white bed, and cried 
distressfully. “ And now — now I’ll forget how he 
looks!” 

“ Bess, see here; didn’t you and Bertha go up in 
the garret to play when the rain came on? And 
didn’t you take the little basket up with you ? ” Lois 
asked. 

“ Yessir! that’s just where I left it! ” cried Bess, 
jumping up, and heading for the garret stairs. 

Triumphant but subdued, she descended the gar- 
ret stairs with her recovered treasure. 

“ Now listen to me, Bess,” said Lois. “ You must 


CONFIDENCES 


79 


promise me not to take the picture from its place 
again. It’s the only picture your folks have of 
Howell since he was a little bit of a boy; and if you 
should lose it — as you certainly will if you keep 
carrying it about with you — I’m afraid to think of 
what your mother will say or do.” 

“ But I can’t half see it up on that high mantel,” 
demurred Bess, beginning to sniffle again. “ And, if 
I can’t see it, how am I going to remember how he 
looked? How am I to know him when he comes 
back. I’d like to know? ” 

“ Well, if you won’t promise, I can’t help you. 
Just see how shabby the frame is already, from 
being handled and carried around ! And the glass is 
cracked, right above the face. I don’t know but that 
I ought to let your mother spank you 1 I was going 
to ask her not to.” 

“ I’ll promise ! ” she capitulated. “ But now I’ll 
have to forget how he looks, and ’tisn’t fair I If 
’twas your brother, you wouldn’t want to forget how 
he looked ! Would you ? ” 

Lois walked slowly about the room once or twice, 
without replying. Then she sat down on the bed, 
and drew the child up beside her. “ Bess, can you 
keep a secret? ” she asked. 

“That means not to tell something, doesn’t it?” 
Bess queried, instantly brightening. “ ’Course I 
can keep a secret ! I never told nobody that Chinney 
told a sto — ” she clapped her hand over her mouth, 
and looked up at Lois, wide-eyed. 

“ I think I can trust you not to tell if I show you 
something,” Lois said, ignoring the slip, although the 


8o 


ELIZABETH BESS 


corners of her mouth were twitching slightly. 
“ See here, then: so you’ll not forget how Howell 
looked — ” she pressed the spring of the locket she 
wore, and held it open before Bess’s eyes. “ I’ll let 
you look at my picture of him, sometimes when 
there’s nobody else around.” 

After her first gasp of astonishment, the child was 
silent a full minute. Then — “ Why — where — 

how — ” she groped. Everything seemed suddenly 
to be topsy-turvy. 

“ Howell had two pictures taken the day he went 
away, and he gave one to me. He — he liked me, 
too,” Lois said steadily. 

“ Did he? ” asked the small Bess, lost in specula- 
tion. “ Oh, yes ! I know now ! Mother told Cousin 
Winnie you was going to be her daughter. That 
would make you all our sister, wouldn’t it? And 
of course Howell would like his sister I We all 
would ! ” 

Lois stooped and kissed the eager little face, and 
the child put her arms around Lois’s neck and 
squeezed her tight, without quite knowing why. 

“ And — and you’ll let me talk about him some- 
times, won’t you?” she whispered, her chin quiver- 
ing. “You think he’s only ‘Missing,’ don’t you? 
You think he’ll come home some day? ” 

Long ago the girl had given up thinking it; but 
now hope sprang to life again, kindled from the lit- 
tle flame in the childish heart. 

“Yes I do, little sister — I do think he’ll come 
back! ” she whispered through tears. 


CHAPTER X 

THE FRONT GATE 


A FTER the war,” in the simple life of the 
Bradford family — as in that of the 
jL jL storied Primroses — small events served 
as milestones. To Elizabeth Bess, the building of 
a new picket fence to replace the old panel one 
marked an epoch; the purchase of a new book was 
only less exciting. And both these things had now 
happened simultaneously ! 

“ New ” book in this case did not mean new pub- 
lication; it meant just what the words express — a 
new book. “ The Children of the Abbey ” was its 
title, and the whole family was on tiptoe over the 
reading of it. 

Such a condition is smile provoking in these days, 
when every village has its public library, every ham- 
let its “ author,” and the flow of new books is un- 
ceasing. But in the Sixties, except in large cities, 
public libraries were unknown and books were few 
and high-priced. Possibly people were more mod- 
est: not every one who could wield a pen felt called 
upon to write a book. Writers — the general run 
— certainly were more modest than are some of their 
craft to-day: when Mother went to buy a book, she 
did not feel it incumbent upon her to look through 


82 


ELIZABETH BESS 


it to learn whether it was fit to put into her daughter’s 
hands. The salacious book was the exception, and 
its author was anathema I 

Sara, whose convalescence was slow, was reading 
her book out under the “ Northern Spy ” apple tree, 
and Bess was watching the carpenter nailing on pick- 
ets. Her satisfaction in the new fence was tem- 
pered by a haunting fear that the gate would be an 
ordinary picket one, whereas she wanted a “ fancy ” 
one, like the one the Cones had. She mentioned her 
preference to Father, who only laughed, whereat she 
went into her shell, and said no more to him about 
it, but she threw out sundry hints to Mr. Hewitt, the 
carpenter. She even brought out her picture of the 
lady and little girl and the beautiful gate, and in- 
formed him that a gate like that was the kind she 
would like. 

But Mr. Hewitt was sphinxlike. Bess caught him 
winking at Bruno, his dog, and saw Bruno wink back 
at him, which exchange of amenities made them look 
more alike than ever ! 

It was a fancy of hers that all the neighbourhood 
dogs resembled their owners. The Bradfords’ 
Nero, for instance, had an honest face and kind, like 
William’s. Needless to say, he was far and away 
the handsomest dog in town, as Will was the hand- 
somest boy! 

“ Chinney’s ” dog was an alert, good-natured lit- 
tle fellow, with hair the colour of his master’s sandy 
whiskers. Mrs. Cone’s Jack, who padded after her 
everywhere, and “ played the banjo ” when you 
scratched his back, was large and gentle, like his mis- 


THE FRONT GATE 83 

tress. The Hortons’ Fido was tall and lean and 
pessimistic, like Charlie. 

But the most remarkable resemblance of all existed 
between Mr. Hewitt and his Bruno. Mr. Hewitt 
had shrewd, grey, Yankee eyes, always with a ques- 
tion mark in them, and the question mark extended 
to his forehead, which was one field of slanting 
wrinkles. So was Bruno’s. There was a humor- 
ous quirk at one corner of the man’s mouth, and the 
same at the dog’s. Even the perk of Bruno’s clipped 
ears made the child think of Mr. Hewitt; why, she 
could not have told. 

When all was done but the gate, and the frame 
of it was being put together, Bess’s limit of self-re- 
pression was reached. “ What kind of a front gate 
are you going to make, Mr. Hewitt?” she de- 
manded. 

“Front gate?” echoed he. “Why — we’re go- 
ing to have a front gate — we’re going to have a 
front gate,” he repeated, straightening up and squint- 
ing along a chalkline. “ We’re going to have a front 
gate that’ll cost five — hundred — dollars ! ” He 
turned a grin and a twinkle on Bruno, who turned a 
grin and a twinkle on him ; and his questioner knew 
that the gate was going to be just a common, ordin- 
ary, everyday picket one ! 

Without another word, Elizabeth Bess turned and 
started for the house. Mother, standing in the door- 
way, spoke to' her as she went in, but not trusting her 
voice to answer, the child hurried up the two flights 
to the garret, where the old rush cradle rocked under 
the eaves. Old Blacky, her cat, was sleeping in it, 


84 


ELIZABETH BESS 


but she dumped him out, and, taking his place, cried 
herself stormily to sleep. 

Then Mother went out, and she and Mr. Hewitt 
talked together for a few minutes. 

After a while the little one came slowly down 
stairs, rubbing her eyes with one smudgy hand, and 
trailing a crumpled hair ribbon. Sara, her finished 
book under her arm, met her sister in the hall, and 
putting an arm around her, drew her out into the 
kitchen to wash her face. Mother was at the sew- 
ing machine in the sitting-room. 

“ Here, Bess,” she called, “ take this oilcan out 
to Mr. Hewitt, and tell him to oil the hinges of the 
new gate; it squeaks like everything! ” 

Listlessly the child obeyed. Gloomily with bent 
head, she scuffed along the walk, until suddenly the 
possibilities of that oilcan unfolded themselves be- 
fore her, as her thumb pressed the bottom of the 
can. Jet after jet of oil sprinkled the gravel. 

“ Well,” challenged Mr. Hewitt, “ how do you 
like the new gate? ” 

The angry red flared into her face, and, “ None 
of your business 1 ” was on the tip of her tongue, 
when her eye lit upon the marvel. For a moment 
she stood silent, taking in its beauties, then, speeding 
back along the path she called out to Mother and 
Sara, standing laughing in the doorway — 

“ ’Tisn’t a picket one I ’Tisn’t a picket one 1 It’s 
prettier’n Mrs. Cone’s — It did cost five hundred 
dollars!” 

So little do we know of values, when “ Going on 
Six!” 


CHAPTER XI 

“ FRIDAY FOR CROSSES ! ” 

‘‘T DON’T care — I am mad at him ! I wouldn’t 
I have got up early and gone off to the woods 
A without him!” muttered the small Bess. 
Which was true: her bed was very dear to her, es- 
pecially o’ mornings. 

“Old Billy Bradford! ” She caught herself up 
sharply, remorse following hard upon the heels of 
crime, and turned to see if any one had heard the 
unforgivable words. Now she had done it — had 
put herself on a level with that bad Bunt Horton, 
who always called Wee-um “ Billy! ” 

Sitting on the back stoop, shelling corn into her 
apron, Bess determined upon a plan of action. She 
would follow William after she had carried the corn 
down to the pond, and seen the ducks dive for it. 
There might be a duck egg in the water; when, Wil- 
liam being away, it would be her duty to recover it, 
but that would not take long! 

Sure enough, there was an egg — a beautiful, pale 
green egg; but it was out beyond the sunfish’s bed. 
“ And Father said I must never wade out beyond the 
sunfish’s bed. It’s only a little, teeny, weeny way 
past, though; maybe I can r-e-a-c-h — ” 

She reached, far; one hand on the sunfish rock. 
85 


86 


ELIZABETH BESS 


Then her foot slipped, and she fell forward with a 
great splash. Puffing and spluttering she scrambled 
to her feet, and up on the sunfish rock, where she 
viewed herself with a critical eye. 

“ I told you, Lizabeth Bess Bradford, that Fa- 
ther said not to go past the sunfish’s bed! ” she said 
severely. “ But you would go ! And now look at 
your span-new apron 1 ’Tisn’t fit to be seen. And 
what Mother’ll say, I cert’n’y don’t know. Maybe 
I can wash it,” she said hopefully, after a little. 
“ ’Course I can wash it, and then nobody’ll know! ” 

Taking off the garment, she soused it up and down 
in the gravelly bed of the sunfish, to the hot indigna- 
tion of the proprietors, which, with agitated fins and 
tails, dashed about beyond the desecrated area. 

Having spread the apron on the grass, its owner 
eyed it dubiously. Its appearance was not reassur- 
ing. She had fallen squarely upon the egg, and that, 
with the mud, made a bad combination. 

William had remarked the evening before that the 
“ Dutchmen’s breeches ” (wild dielytra) was bloom- 
ing in the Ledge pasture. Perhaps he had gone to 
get some. She would go and meet him ; he ought to 
be coming home by now ! 

It was fortunate for Bess, in her wet clothing, that 
the late May day was like one in midsummer. As 
she climbed the ledge, the steam rose in little clouds 
above her head; the soggy garments impeded her, 
and it was a tired youngster that. sank down beside the 
dielytra, her arms already full of red columbine 
picked by the way. 

The little white hearts swaying in the wind showed 


FRIDAY FOR CROSSES! 


87 


that no vandal hand had touched them: William 
had not been there. Not a little disturbed by this 
discovery, she began to wonder what she had better 
do : wait a while and see if he would come, or go 
back? It was a long way back, and she was so 
tired! And if William came, he would take her 
home pick-a-back ! 

Something cold and damp touched her cheek, and 
Nero stood panting beside her. Dropping her 
flowers, she squeezed his head against her breast 
until he whimpered protestingly. The woods had be- 
gun to seem lonely, but now they were not any more. 
The old dog stretched himself out in the shade, his 
fat side making such an inviting pillow that she laid 
her head upon it. . . . 

She was awakened by the dog’s growling, and 
struggling to free himself. Her startled eyes, as she 
sat up, met those of a rough looking man standing 
a few feet away. 

“Hello, little gyerl!” grinned the stranger, and 
Bess shivered without knowing why. “ Takin’ a 
nap, was ye? What a nice locket ye got! Le’s see 
what’s inside of it.” 

“ Yes, it’s solid gold,” replied its owner complac- 
ently. “ But there isn’t a thing in it only glass. 
We went on a rainy day, and couldn’t have one 
took.” 

“ Too bad ! I suppose, now, your folks have lots 
of nice things at home — and your pa has lots of 
money.” 

“ I s’pose he has,” Pa’s daughter admitted, again 
complacently. “ And Sara’s got a new set of 


88 


ELIZABETH BESS 


jew’lry. Be still, Nero! you growl so loud I can’t 
talk 1 ” 

“Where do ye live when ye’re home?” 

“ Why, down there,” she pointed. “ No, I guess 
it’s over that way. I guess maybe I forget — but 
Nero’ll take me home.” 

“ Make him lie down, so’s I can look at yer locket; 
take it off.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t take it off! Come, Nero, let’s 
go! ” 

“ Don’t be in a hurry; I want to see that locket. 
I don’t believe there’s even a place for a picture in 
it! ” bullied the tramp. “ Give it here. And make 
that pup lie down. He’s an infernal nuisance ! ” 

The Wee One didn’t know what an “ infernal 
nuisance ” was, but she did know that it was an op- 
probrious epithet. “ He is not a ‘ fernal nuisance,’ ” 
she bristled. “ Now you go ’way, or I’ll sic him on 
you ! ” 

“Huh!” scoffed the tramp, deceived by Nero’s 
forbearance. “ He’s only a bag of wind! ” Pick- 
ing up a stick, he made a rush at him, and a grab for 
the locket and chain. Bess screamed and stumbled 
back, but the dog, with a hoarse roar, sprang at the 
throat of the robber; missed him, and tumbled into 
a hole left by an up-turned tree. This gave the vil- 
lain a start; but Nero was only a few rods in the 
rear as pursuer and pursued disappeared among the 
trees. 

Forsaken by Nero, the scared child did not know 
which way to turn. “Wee-um!” she screamed 
wildly. “Wee-um — WEE-UM!” And off in 


“FRIDAY FOR CROSSES I” 89 

the distance, William heard and answered, and sped, 
a very Mercury, to the rescue. 

It was a disappointed and disgruntled William 
that the cry in the wilderness had come to. While 
he would not have admitted that he shared the little 
sister’s illusions regarding Howell, the fact was that 
ever since the day Mother had been so sure she saw 
him on the train William was looking for the wan- 
derer to return. He had the utmost confidence in his 
mother’s discernment, and felt that she could not 
make a mistake where one of her children was con- 
cerned. 

William was but a little chap — just Bess’s age 
now — when Howell went to the war, but he re- 
membered distinctly the big brother’s love of na- 
ture, amounting almost to a passion. He used to 
take William with him on many of his woods’ ex- 
cursions, carrying him when he was tired, as William 
now did with Bess. They used to follow the little 
streams to their sources among the hills searching 
in their beds for treasures. (William still kept 
Howell’s collection of fossils and odd stones and 
Indian arrowheads.) 

To William, there seemed nothing incongruous 
in the notion that some instinct would bring his 
brother back to the wild places he had loved, even 
as the birds found their way back. Why would he 
not come home, if so near to it? Well — of course 
he would, if he were himself, but there was no ac- 
counting for the vagaries of one who had been hit 
on the head’ with a cannon-ball! 

Illogical as were these hopes, William clung to 


90 


ELIZABETH BESS 


them. To-day, in going over the old stamping 
ground, he had found a little cabin in a notch of the 
hills, and the nebulous hope had assumed definite 
shape. It was only when, after scouting around, the 
investigator routed out a couple of smoke-blackened 
charcoal burners, that he gave up the chase in dis- 
gust, and was gloomily plodding homeward when he 
heard his sister’s hail. 

As the reunited pair walked up the home lane with 
Nero trotting behind, they heard Sara in the kitchen, 
chanting an old rhyme : 

“Thursday for losses, Friday for crosses — 
Saturday, no luck at 

The last line was interrupted by a scream, which 
brought the youngsters on the double quick, to be 
met by dire disaster at the kitchen door. Mother 
had gone to town, and Sara, energetically doing the 
housework, had swept one of the feet from under the 
kitchen stove, which now stretched sprawling half 
way across the kitchen, as it seemed. A boiling 
cascade fell from the nozzle of the teakettle, smoke 
was pouring from the unjointed stovepipe — and 
Father was forty miles away! That is, he might as 
well have been as to be off in the south meadow, far 
out of sight and hearing 1 

Sweeping Bess behind him, William seized the ket- 
tle, and set it outside the door. He tried desper- 
ately to remember what Father had done when, once 
before, this thing had happened; but aside from keep- 
ing falling sparks from setting the floor on fire, he 


FRIDAY FOR CROSSES! 


91 


couldn’t think of a thing! The stove was too heavy 
for them to lift, and — 

“ What’s the matter here — what’s the matter? ” 
cried a heavenly voice, with a familiar little squeak in 
it, and Chinney came bouncing in. Bess did not 
know until that moment that she had been vociferat- 
ing her alarm ! Catching up the little “ cricket ” in 
which the dolls were slumbering, he dumped them 
out, and planted it beside the stove. Then he requi- 
sitioned the ironing board which, thrust under the 
stove for a lever, the end resting on the stool, raised 
the fiery furnace to a level. 

It was the work of a moment for William to adjust 
the foot. Then Chinney leaped upon a chair, and 
as if he had been a magician and said “ Presto, 
change ! ” the smoking pipe slipped into place, and 
ceased to smoke. 

Thaf s the time o’ day! ” said Chinney then, and 
having wiped his hands upon his overalls, he tossed 
the Wee One to the ceiling. “ Good-bye — I’m in a 
hurry ! ” he told the grateful trio, and was gone. 

William started for the well for a pail of water, his 
little sister at his heels. There was a perennial 
charm about the well. You let the bucket go down, 
down, until it hit the water with a splash; filled, sank 
and came up again, sparkling and dripping within 
its mossy walls. 

Now, as William reached in to grasp the handle 
and pour the water through the spout into his pail, an 
awful thing happened : the bucket broke loose from 
its rope, and fell like lead back down the well. With 
a terrific splash that sent the water above their heads, 


92 


ELIZABETH BESS 


it sank from sight, while the freed rope whipped like 
a snake around the windlass. 

So, now! Of what good was it to be saved from 
fire, only to die of thirst? Bess looked with startled 
eyes into William’s face. But he said, with an effect 
of cheerfulness, “ Well, the next thing is to get the 
creeper, and fish it out! ” 

“ What’s the ‘ creeper,’ Wee-um? ” his small sis- 
ter asked, a shudder rippling up and down her spine 
as she pronounced the uncanny word. 

“ Oh, you’ll see ! ” he assured her. To himself he 
was saying, bitterly, “ Friday for crosses, Friday for 
crosses ! ” Which surely was so — for this was Fri- 
day I 

The implement which William brought from the 
woodshed loft, was shaped somewhat like a four- 
pronged anchor. Bess could fancy it creeping, 
creeping hideously around in the depths of the well, 
searching for the recreant bucket, and grappling it. 

The creeper was not so smart, however; first it 
brought up a cherrytree branch, then a sodden little 
straw hat with faded ribbons, that had been missing 
many moons. But suddenly the line tightened in his 
hands, and William’s face grew tense as slowly up 
from the depths he drew the prize. Sara, who, from 
the vantage ground of her three years’ seniority, had 
come ‘ to warn, to counsel and command,’ was mak- 
ing pessimistic comment, for the creeper had a very 
precarious hold upon its prey — was bringing it up 
literally by the ear. Seeing which, William was ex- 
citedly (though unconsciously) saying, “Look out, 
Bess — Look out!** 


FRIDAY FOR CROSSES!” 


93 


But Bess was looking in (to the well) with her 
whole being in her eyes. The bucket had almost 
reached the curb, when it jerked its ear from the 
creeper’s hold, and sank again into the depths 1 

William’s cry of disappointment was the last straw 
upon the child’s overworked nerves. Standing on 
tiptoe, and balancing on her stomach across the low 
curb, as the bucket fell she instinctively grabbed for it. 

And William would have had more than the bucket 
to drag for had not Father at that moment appeared 
upon the scene, and caught a copper-toed shoe in its 
downward flight I 

Then Father turned his hysterical small daughter 
over to Sara, and went to work — as fathers do — 
and brought up that bucket 1 

At the dinner table, Elizabeth Bess told the story 
of her adventure with the robber, and Nero naturally 
came in for a good deal of commendation. Still, the 
old fellow was not happy. Every little while he 
would put his head down and paw at his mouth in a 
distressing way. 

“There’s something the matter with the dog — 
must have got a bone fa^t on his teeth,” said Father, 
and prepared to investigate; but he was saved the 
trouble. With a last great effort, Nero succeeded in 
dislodging the obstruction, and disclosing it to view. 
It was not a bone, but a dirty bit of cloth that had 
caused the trouble. 

The elders were wondering over this, when sud- 
denly the small Bess struck her hands together : 

“ It’s a piece of the tramper’s pants! ” she cried. 


CHAPTER XII 


A FOURTH OF JULY CHRONICLE 

Tj ^OURTH o’ July ” in Elizabeth Bess Brad- 
1-^ ford’s time and town, was almost as “ safe 
A. and sane” as the same date in 1917, but 
from a different cause. In those days it did not need 
a town ordinance to regulate the sale of fire-works. 
Circumstances, in the shape of an attenuated purse, 
were likely to do that for you. 

Where now a child gets a nickel or a dime for some 
little service the coin of the tribute with which Wil- 
liam and Bess were most familiar was the big, old- 
fashioned cent, and even these were not always to 
be had for the asking. The bestowal of a three-cent 
“ shinplaster ” or its silver equivalent was an event; 
that of a ten-cent one marked an epoch. But until 
recently, Bess would have none of these if a “ coin,” 
as the big cent was called, could be had instead. Size 
was what counted in her eyes. 

Two little tin banks stood side by side on the 
kitchen shelf, and Bess loved to take them down, 
“ heft ” them appraisingly, shake them violently, 
then flaunt in William’s face the fact of her larger 
wealth, as evidenced by weight and sound. While 
the sly William salved his conscience with the reflec- 
tion that if the big pennies made his little sister 
94 


A FOURTH OF JULY CHRONICLE 95 

happy, then it was all right to exchange them for her 
threes ! 

But, be it said for William that he was, like Robin 
Hood, generous with his ill-gotten gains, much of 
which eventually went to buy “ something nice for 
Bess.” There was, however, one day on which he 
was positively stingy, and that was the Fourth of 
July. 

On the day before the Fourth, William always 
managed to get to town. Then he would make the 
round of the stores where fireworks were sold to see 
if, perchance, some philanthropist had cut the price 
of firecrackers from ten cents straight to three packs 
for a quarter. Formerly (in William’s young days) 
this never happened before the afternoon of the 
Fourth, but now, for a year or two, outside some ob- 
scure little shop, would appear this heart-stirring an- 
nouncement : 

FIRECRACKERS, THREE PACKS FOR A QUARTER I 

And William, possessing himself of the three packs 
— and some torpedoes for Bess — would hand over 
the shinplasters and coins like one paying a king’s 
ransom. Then came a quarter of a pound of pow- 
der, and this might not be omitted, whatever else 
went by the board; for this was to be used in the 
culminating event of the anniversary, when, at night, 
William with his gun over his shoulder, and Liza- 
beth Bess tagging behind, would climb to the top 
of the Round Hill, there to “ fire off ” his gun at in- 
tervals until his powder was gone. 


96 


ELIZABETH BESS 


On the morning of the Fourth, he ceremoniously 
bestowed the torpedoes upon his sister. “ Aw, give 
me some firecrackers too, Wee-um!” she begged. 
“ Just a few I ” 

“ Oh, well, if you want to shoot your fingers off I 
You know firecrackers are not for girls! ” As he 
was doling them out. Father came up. “ William, if 
you want to use that gun to-night, you’ll have to draw 
the charge beforehand,” he directed. “ It’s been in 
the gun so long, it’s not safe to fire it.” 

William squirmed in disgust. “ Oh, yes it is. 
Father 1 It hasn’t been in so long I ” 

“ Do as I tell you! Your Uncle James tried to 
fire an old charge like that once, and the moment he 
touched the trigger the gun exploded, and it was just 
by good luck that he wasn’t killed. You draw that 
charge ! ” 

Elizabeth Bess, thrilling with horror at the fate 
which had so nearly overtaken Uncle James, the Nim- 
rod of the family (who was away now, in the South) , 
followed her brother out to the woodshed when he 
went to perform the hated operation. 

First he took the old iron ramrod with the screw 
end and sent it rattling down the gun barrel. Then, 
twisting it around until the point caught in the wad- 
ding, William slowly, slowly withdrew the rod until, 
with the disc almost in sight, the screw point pulled 
loose; when there was nothing to do but push the 
wadding back down the barrel, and begin all over 
again. 

William looked so fierce when this happened that 
his small sister dared not say “Too bad!” And 


A FOURTH OF JULY CHRONICLE 97 

when it happened a second time, and he hissed 
through his set teeth, “ I knew how it would be — I 
just knew! ” she was afraid even to look her com- 
miseration. Bess was afraid that if it should occur a 
third time he might say something that bad boys say 
when they get mad, and knowing that she would not 
be able to stand that, she rose softly from the chop- 
ping block, and began tiptoeing out of the woodshed. 

“ Come back here! ” called William, so suddenly 
that she tripped over the sill, and went sprawling on 
hands and knees. However, she did not so much as 
think of crying — so greatly did William’s troubles 
overtop hers — but turned and gazed solemnly at 
him. 

“ What are you looking like a funeral for? ” de- 
manded William, but more gently. “ Take this ram- 
rod, and put it back in the kitchen closet, will you? ” 
“ Oh-h ! You got it out, Wee-um ? ” 

“ No. I’m going to shoot it out.” 

“ Oh! Wee-um Bradford! Father said — ” 
“Yes! And Mother said,” he mimicked, “to 
pick the currants before she and Father came home 
from town. How’ll I get ’em picked if I’ve got to 
waste the whole forenoon on a fool gun. I’d like to 
know? ” 

“Why, I’ll help you, Wee-um. Only — please 
don’t fire it ! You know Father said : ‘ The minute 

he touched the trigger! — ’” She repeated the 
words in a shaking whisper. 

“ Oh, but that was a different kind of a gun,” par- 
ried William. Then, seeing the distress in her face, 
he relented. “ All right, Lizabeth Bess. Tell you 


98 


ELIZABETH BESS 


what we’ll do: run in the house, and get me a long 
piece of string. I’ll set the gun up in the crotch of 
the walnut tree, tie the string to the trigger, and 
then we’ll stand away off, and pull it. You can pull it 
then, if you want to.” 

Pull it Lizabeth Bess did, shutting her eyes tight as 
she did so. But the gun did not explode : the string, 
a piece of common twine, had broken. 

“Darn the thing I ” William grunted. “Go to 
the barn, quick, and get Father’s ball of cord out of 
the tool chest ! ” 

“ You — you won’t shoot it off, Wee-um? ” 

“What d’ you take me for? Didn’t I say I 
wouldn’t ? Hurry up ! ” 

As she pattered up the stone steps between the 
barnyard and yard proper William took the gun out 
of the crotch and was looking it over, when Bunt 
Horton appeared out of the woods opposite, and 
hopped across the brook. And like a flash it came to 
William that he would never hear the last of it if 
Bunt Horton should see him shooting off a gun with 
a string! And in that instant, he put the gun to his 
shoulder, and fired into the air. 

The tame little weapon didn’t even kick. But 
Bess, half way to the barn, heard the report, and 
came rushing back, expecting to find the mangled re- 
mains of her brother, if, perchance, even these were 
left! 

Down the steps she came, as with wings; and 
Charlie, with the intention of jumping out later and 
scaring her, dodged behind the big hickory. Wil- 
liam turned to confront his sister, whose face, at first 


A FOURTH OF JULY CHRONICLE 99 

white with terror, crimsoned with anger at sight of 
the gun in his hands. 

“ You did shoot it off, didn’t you? ” she blazed. 
“ You just wanted to get me out of the way, didn’t 
you? I’ll never b’lieve you again, as long as I live 
and breave I ” 

As her voice rose in a piercing crescendo and Wil- 
liam made no answer. Bunt thrust his head out from 
behind the tree. The satisfaction of putting “ that 
little Bradford smarty ” in the wrong was doubtless 
what led him to say — “ Aw, shut up, you little spit- 
fire, you I Billy didn’t do it — I done it I ” 

William, who knew now that the big boy had seen 
and heard the whole thing, opened his mouth to con- 
tradict him when his sister interposed. Reaching 
up, and taking him by the jacket fronts — “Oh, 
’scuse me, Wee-um! ” she pleaded, her face a study 
of mingled relief, remorse and joy. “ I just knew 
you wouldn’t tell a story! ” Hearing which. Bunt 
laughed uproariously. And Bess, who disliked and 
feared Charlie Horton, waited only to stick out her 
tongue at him before fleeing back to the swing under 
the apple-tree by the house. 

Meantime William, in a whirl of varied emotions, 
had turned upon his whilom chum. “ You had to 
come snoopin’ round, didn’t you?” he demanded. 
“ Next time, just mind your own business, will you? ” 

When Bunt’s astonishment permitted him to speak 
— “Well, if you ain’t the darndest cuss!” he ex- 
ploded. “ Just ’cause I wanted to keep that little 
wild cat from sailin’ into you tooth and nail, you turn 
’round and give me Hail Columbia ! All right. 


lOO 


ELIZABETH BESS 


sonny! All right! Next time he can shoot off his 
little gun with his little string, and nobody shall stop 
him! ” And like a new Colossus, Bunt spanned the 
flood with his long legs, and disappeared again into 
the woods. 

On his way to the house with the gun, the sight of 
the little huddled figure in the swing disarmed what- 
ever resentment William might have felt toward her, 
and transferred it to the score standing against that 
miscreant. Bunt Horton. 

Lizabeth Bess was all right — she was just look- 
ing out for him. And she thought he was good — 
that he was honourable ! And he to break his word, 
and then like a big coward, let Bunt Horton lie for 
him ! 

But he wasn’t going to tell her! No, sir — not 
after that look in her eyes when she said “ ’Scuse me, 
Wee-um!” Only — Oh, hang it all! William 
hadn’t known that a fellow could feel so mean ! 

Father and Mother had returned from town; din- 
ner was over, and William and Bess had gone back to 
the currant picking. The sun was hot, and William 
was cross. Well, he needn’t be ! His sister guessed 
she had been picking currants in the sun, too. The 
back of her neck was ready to blister that minute ! 

Well, if he wanted to be cross, he could be cross! 
Thank goodness, here was Chinney, driving home 
from town. Maybe — perhaps — sometimes Chin- 
ney brought candy when he came from town. Bess 
went and stood by the five hundred dollar gate, wear- 
ing her sweetest smile. 


A FOURTH OF JULY CHRONICLE loi 

Sure enough, Chinney had brought the candy, and 
something else, too. He called out to Father that 
he had a dispatch for him; and handed him a letter in 
a yellow envelope, with printing on it; and tossed 
the bag of candy to the Wee One. 

Mother came out on the veranda, and read the 
message over Father’s shoulder, (there was only a 
line or two of it), and they laughed together, as if 
over some very pleasant news. “ I’ll have to meet 
the six o’clock train,” said Father; and Mother told 
him to bring home a good, big steak for supper. But 
when Elizabeth Bess asked what it was about. Father 
said it was to be a surprise, and wouldn’t be cajoled 
into telling. 

Hunting up Sara, Bess gave her a peppermint 
stick, and then went out to William, whose crossness 
fell from him like a garment at sight of the little 
paper bag. He knocked off work instantly, and the 
two worthies sat down in the shade and regaled them- 
selves. 

“ Wee-um,” queried the Wee One at the end of 
the first stick, “ What’s a dispratch letter? ” 

“A what?” asked William, in the tone that al- 
ways made his small sister’s face get red. 

“ A dispratch letter,” she repeated firmly. 
“ Chinney brought one to Father, and it was in a yel- 
low envelope, with letters on it.” 

“ He did I Did you hear Chinney say it was a dis- 
patch ? ” asked William, waking up. 

“Yes.” She made a mental note of the correc- 
tion. “ And I asked Father what it said, and he 
said it was to be a s’prise. ’N’ he told Mother he’d 


102 


ELIZABETH BESS 


have to meet the six o’clock train, and Mother told 
him to bring home a good big steak.” 

“ Gee — Whittaker ! ” was William’s comment, if 
comment it could be called. And he sat pondering, 
his jaws in suspended action. 

“ Do you s’pose, Wee-um — ” 

“ I don’t suppose a single thing! ” he interrupted, 
getting to his feet. “ If Father says it’s to be a sur- 
prise, let it be a surprise. I like surprises — don’t 
you? ” 

“ Y-e-s, I s’pose so.” She shook the last of the 
candy crumbs into her mouth. 

It was evening. Twilight was deepening into 
dusk, and the two children, sitting on the front porch, 
were straining their ears for the sound of wheels com- 
ing over the bridge. Suddenly Nero got up off the 
husk mat by the door, lifted his head high, and sniffed 
the air long and searchingly. Then he started on a 
brisk walk down the road. 

“What does he see, Wee-um?” the Wee One 
asked, sidling closer to his protecting arm. 

“ Guess it’s what he hears. Come on — I hear 
the wagon! ” 

“ Nero always waits for Father to come, 
Wee-um.” The words came joggling out as she ran. 

“ He didn’t this time. Don’t step on yourself — 
Baby! Look where you’re going!” 

“ How can I look where I’m going, in the dark? 
Wee-um, there’s some one with Father — I hear 
them talking! Don’t go on, Wee-um — wait!” 
She drew him back into the shelter of the wagon shed. 


A FOURTH OF JULY CHRONICLE 103 

where they stood shivering with excitement, and un- 
spoken hope. 

Hullo! cried a deep voice, and some one 
jumped out of the wagon, and grabbed both the chil- 
dren. Bess was being kissed and, as William dodged 
to escape such an indignity, a gleam from a window 
revealed the stranger’s identity. “ Youngsters, this 
is Uncle Jim! ” cried Father at the same moment, 
and as he spoke, two young hearts with one accord 
sounded the depths of disappointment. 

Bess didn’t know Uncle Jim, and didn’t want to 
know him! She wanted to scream and scratch and 
bite, and tear out handsful of the crisp hair that was 
tickling her sun-burned neck as the stranger carried 
her in. As for William, a feeling of anger toward 
his father swelled his heart as he led the horse into 
the stable. Why hadn’t he told them who was com- 
ing? And why — why couldn’t it have been his 
brother, not Father’s — his own brother, Howell? 

An hour later, the whole family — except Mother 
and Gran — were on their way to the Round Hill. 
William was carrying a big box of fireworks that 
Uncle Jim had brought; and Lizabeth Bess, also 
reconciled, was seated upon the stranger’s shoulder 
when who should loom up in the faint moonlight but 
Charlie Horton. 

Bess was willing to let by-gones be by-gones for the 
nonce, but the two boys eyed each other with never a 
thought of truce. Nero, however, quite unwitting 
that things had changed since yesterday when the two 
and he himself had gone on a snake hunt together. 


104 


ELIZABETH BESS 


halted directly in front of Charlie, and stood with 
head lifted and tail wagging, expectant of a pat. 

William, whistling loudly, and ostensibly gazing 
straight ahead, with the corner of his eye saw the big 
boy impulsively put out his hand in passing and give 
the dog a couple of swift pats. And in a moment, 
the whole aspect of things had changed. Falling 
back a step, William called casually. 

“ Say, Bunt, come on along with us up on the hill. 
Uncle Jim’s brought us a bushel of fireworks. Come 
on — we’ll have some fun ! ” 

“ I’m your huckleberry, Billy! ” cried Bunt, and 
the two walked up the hill together. 


CHAPTER XIII 

WHEN HATE WAS BORN I 

OU go back, Bess — you can’t go to-day,” 
said William, closing the gate, with her 
JL on the yard side. 

The little girl looked up at him blankly. Then a 
smile broke over her face; she clapped a hand on her 
bare head, and said happily, 

“ Oh, I forgot, Wee-um! I’ll go right back and 
get my shaker I ” 

“ The shaker won’t make any difference — you 
can’t come. Go on up to Bertha’s house, and play 
with her.” 

“ You’re just a-plaguing me, ’cause I forgot to ask 
Mother again. I’ll run right along and ask her, 
Wee-um I ” She turned, and confronted Bunt Hor- 
ton, who had come up through the lane, and was 
standing with his gun across his arm. He reached 
out and caught her, as she was running back. 

“ No use askin’ your mother,” he said bluntly. 
“ Billy and me are goin’ huntin’, and we can’t have 
girls along.” The way he said “ girls ” made this 
one’s blood boil. But she merely flashed a con- 
temptuous glance at him, twitched her arm from his 
grasp, and turned again to her brother. 

“ I’ll go get my bow-narrow that you made for me. 


io6 


ELIZABETH BESS 


and just you and me go, Wee-um? ” she appealed, in 
a confidential whisper. 

William’s heart almost failed him. Whatever 
made her so set on going, to-day ? Usually, the sight 
of a gun was enough for her ! It was mighty hard 
to disappoint her when she wanted anything so bad. 
Now, when she pushed the gate open, and came out 
and took him by the lapels of his coat, he said with 
a gentleness that even the presence of cynical Bunt 
Horton could not lessen, 

“ No, no, Bess, it’s too far! You run along up to 
Bertha’s, and maybe you and I’ll take our bows ’n’ ar- 
rows and go to-morrow. Good-bye 1 ” 

Without another word she turned and walked to- 
ward the house, her head held firm and high. On 
the way, she ran plump into the grindstone, but not 
for worlds would she have had them know that it was 
tears — blinding tears 1 — that made her do it. 

William turned at the Rye Lot bars and waved 
to her. “ Good-bye, Bess 1 ” he called again. 
“ Maybe I’ll bring you a live flyin’ squirrel! ” but 
she made no sign. 

“ Darn it! ” muttered William, who felt mean — 
“ meaner’n pusley!” “I suppose I might have 
taken her,” he said, quite to himself, as he thought, 
but Bunt heard him and snorted. 

“ You’re a reg’lar fool about that young ’un, Billy. 
How in tunket could you take her a-huntin’. I’d like 
to know ! ” 

“ I don’t call it huntin’ when you’re along; them 
big feet o’ yourn scare everything out of range,” re- 
plied William, lapsing into Bunt’s vernacular. Bunt 


WHEN HATE WAS BORN! 


107 


thought it was “ sissified ” to use anything approach- 
ing good English. “ And I could carry her when she 
got tired 1 ” he added shamelessly. 

“ Not and go with me, you couldn’t,” countered 
Bunt, ignoring the delicate thrust at his sportsman- 
ship. “ I don’t want no circus parade along when I 
go a-huntin’ 1 ” 

“ Well, I do’ know’s it’s abs’lutely necessary for 
you to go along,” observed William with rising 
gorge. “ I’d like to know who asked you to go 
huntin’ in our woods, anyway I Go on home if you 
want to I It’s a pretty cold day when I’ve got to ask 
Mister Bunt Horton’s permission to take my little sis- 
ter anywhere I Go on home, if you want to I ” he 
shouted getting madder every minute. 

“ Oh, shucks ! ” deprecated Bunt, who knew that 
the best hunting ground for squirrels anywhere about 
was the Bradford beech woods. “ What makes you 
so all-fired touchy to-day? I didn’t say anything to 
make you get up on your ear I Come along 1 ” 

“ For two cents, I wouldn’t go another step! ” de- 
clared William truculently. He braced his legs wide 
apart, and stood glaring at his companion, whose 
meekness went to William’s head like wine ! 

“Well, stay where y’are, then! I’m goin’ 
a-huntin’.” And the big boy strode off into the 
woods. William, nonplussed, strode after him — 
if the movements of his stocky legs could be called a 
stride. Beaten at his own game, he was at a loss 
what to do next, when something gleaming white on 
a nearby tree caught his attention, and gave him an 
idea. 


io8 


ELIZABETH BESS 


“ Oh, Bunt, come on back a minute — I want 
you I ” he called. 

“ Well, come and get me ! ” Bunt flung back with- 
out stopping. 

“ But I want to show you something I Bet you 
never saw anything like it before. Hurry up before 
it gets away ! Hurry up ! ” 

Bunt’s curiosity got the better of him and he came 
running back to where William was crouching and 
peering intently into the branches of a big beech. 

“Where is it? What is it?” he asked eagerly, 
following William’s pointing finger. 

“ Right up there. No, you’re looking too high. 
Can’t you see it? Right there below the first limb ! ” 

Bunt had seen it all the time, but never dreamed 
that this was what William had called him back for. 
Now, dropping his gaze to the spot indicated, the 
blood welled up into his freckled face as he read this 
sign: 

“ All Persons Are Forbidden to Hunt or Trespass 
on This Property Under Penalty of the Law ! 

“ William H. Bradford.” 

“ That means you, Mr. Bunt Horton! ” William 
gleefully told him. “ Now you get off my father’s 
property. Skip! Skedaddle! Git!” 

“ Not till I’ve wiped up the ground with you, you 
miserable little sneak! ” And reaching out a long 
arm. Bunt took a twist in William’s hair with his 
talon-like fingers. 

“Aw, get out! Can’t you take a joke?” cried 



Elizabeth Bess left to herself climbed up onto the frame 
of the grindstone 






■p 

V 


WHEN HATE WAS BORN! 


109 

William, feeling his scalp cracking. “ Quit it, I tell 
you I Ow! QUIT IT I” 

Bunt let loose a hair or two. “ You goin’ to be 
decent, then, and not have so much lip? ” he ques- 
tioned. 

“ I’ll be just as decent as you are, and no more ! ” 

They made a few passes at each other, scuffled a bit 

— a friendly bout — then, being boys, they started 
off again quite amicably. 

Elizabeth Bess, left to herself, climbed up on the 
grindstone frame, and wiped away the tears with her 
apron. She had never had any real love for Charlie 
Horton, but now she hated him! How she hated 
him! She ground her little teeth together at the 
thought of him. 

Oh, if she could only — if she could only — let’s 
see : if she could only get a big tiger, and shut him up 

— let’s see where: why, in the henhouse (of course 
when all the hens were out), and Charlie Horton 
should come down the road — Oh, goody! that was 
it: Charlie Horton should come down the road with a 
little basket in his hand, and say to her: “Say! 
Has your mother got some eggs to lend my mother? 
’Cause she’s goin’ to make a big weddin’ cake for sup- 
per, and she hasn’t got enough! ” 

And then she, Elizabeth Bess, would say, “ Oh, 
yes ! there’s some in the hen-house ; you go get 
’em!” 

And then Charlie Horton went into the hen-house, 
and she ran quick and turned the button on the door, 
and called out to him, “ Now, Charlie Horton, will 
you call my Wee-um ‘ Billy ’ again? And will you 


no ELIZABETH BESS 

take him away and not let him take me ? And will 
you — ” 

But the awful screams and growls that came from 
the hen-house, and the horrible, struggling noises, 
were too much for her new-born hate. She reached 
up and tried to turn the button back, but it wouldn’t 
turn back! Frantically she dug her finger nails into 
it and swung her weight on it, and screamed and 
shrieked for MOTHER I 

Uncle Jim got there first, just in time to catch his 
niece, who was falling off the grindstone in the throes 
of a hideous dream 1 

“ Oh, I’m glad I didn’t catch the tiger. Uncle 
Jim! ” she panted. And shuddered, away down in- 
side of her at the thought of the frightful noises. 

“ You mean, that the tiger didn’t catch he 

laughed. 

“ Tell you what I’m going to do,” she confided, 
after a period of meditation; “ I’m just going to wait 
till Howell comes home, and I’ll bet he’ll fix that 
Charlie Horton. You just wait and see! ” 

Uncle Jim looked at her with narrowed eyes. 
“When’s he coming?” he asked casually. 

“ Oh, I don’t know! I’m pret’ near tired waiting 
for him,” she said, and slipped from his lap to go and 
see if William might be in sight. She hoped Charlie 
Horton wouldn’t be with him. Elizabeth Bess was 
beginning to feel a little ashamed of her tantrum. 
Mother was very strong on the Golden Rule. And 
the Catechism said that Anger was one of the Seven 
deadly sins ! 


WHEN HATE WAS BORN! 


Ill 


And perhaps — maybe Charlie Horton was not so 
ter’ble bad! She tried to think of some redeeming 
trait or action of his. He was good to his little white 
dog, Benny. He cried the day Benny fell in the cis- 
tern, and had lost his conscience when they pulled him 
out. (She quoted Sally — from memory — with 
some pride.) And Burfa — she liked her brother 
almost as well as — 

But Elizabeth Bess would not pursue the demean- 
ing simile — that was too much to expect ! No : she 
could forgive Charlie Horton — if she must and 
Mother said no one could say “ Our Father ” unless 
they forgave, but if he should come back with Wil- 
liam, and should speak to her, she knew that it would 
make her sick — sick at her stummick ! 

My ! but it was a long morning ! Other mornings, 
she would be picking apples, or husking corn, or rid- 
ing in the jinricksha behind William’s flying heels, or 
- — anyway, she would be where he was — dear 
Wee-um ! Was that him, ’way off there in the woods 
path? And alone? Now, she wouldn’t have to be 
sick at her stummick ! 

Down the lane and across the Rye Lot she ran, 
her hard little soles taking no note of the stubbles; 
and looked up at him as Nero did — with her heart 
in her eyes. William’s own eyes brightened, and his 
mouth expanded in a happy grin at this change of 
front in his little partner. “ I didn’t get the squirrel 
— but hold your apron,” he said, and emptied a 
pocketful of the first chestnuts into it. 

Lizabeth Bess breathed an ecstatic sigh. 


II2 


ELIZABETH BESS 


“ I was mad at you this morning, Wee-um, but I 
ain’t now,” she said coyly. “ I know it was that bad, 
old Charlie Horton that made you act so ! ” 

William laughed, and swung her up on his back. 
“We got to hurry!” he said, hitting it up. 
“ There’s the Old Gong blowin’ for noon, now! ” 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE GROWN-UPS CONFER 

THAT’S all this talk of little Bess’s about 
Howell coming back? ” asked Uncle 
▼ ▼ Jim. The children had gone to bed, 

and the elders were sitting on the veranda in the 
warm September evening. 

Lois Horton had called, and was sitting with them, 
and at the question, with one impulse the two wom- 
en’s hands met in a quick clasp in the friendly dark. 

“ Several times, now, she’s said something to that 
effect,” Uncle Jim went on, “ until I begin to wonder 
if there’s anything to it — if the rest of you know 
something that, for some reason, I haven’t been told 
of.” 

“ There isn’t a thing to it,” Father answered. 
“ Of course you’d have been told if there was. It’s 
just a notion of Bess’s that we can’t seem to get her 
out of. She heard some one reading the entry in the 
Bible, which states that Howell is missing, and she de- 
clares that that means he’s coming back.” 

“ I see; too bad! ” said Jim. “ I was hoping — ” 

“ I am still hoping, Jim,” said Mother quietly, al- 
though her voice was trembling. Then, whether it 
was the darkness or the presence of a new and sym- 
pathetic listener that gave her courage, she went on 


ELIZABETH BESS 


114 

rapidly to tell of the L’Estrange incident; and of her 
conviction (for it amounted to that) that she had 
seen her son on the train that day in the summer. 

“ L’Estrange : seems to me I heard something 
about that fellow,” Jim answered. “ I remember 
now — it was when I was in Boston, just before com- 
ing here. The Globe had quite a bit about him. It 
seems he travels for some big house that sends him 
all over the country — makes contracts, or establishes 
branches, or something of that sort. I didn’t pay 
much attention, not being interested particularly. 
But he hopes in that way to find himself, as he 
says.” 

Lois cleared her throat. “ Do you remember the 
name of the firm he works for? ” she asked. 

“ No, I don’t; I don’t believe it was given.” 

“You say it was in the Globe you saw it — the 
editor might know,” said Mother. “ He ought to 
know, since it was in his paper.” 

“ Not necessarily,” Jim smiled to himself at this 
ingenuousness. “ But I’ll write and ask him, if you 
wish. I think a good plan would be to put a personal 
in the New York Herald. Everybody reads the 
Herald personals.” 

“ But how would you word it? ” Lois asked. 
“ There are probably lots of L’Estranges in the coun- 
try, and if you said that he would hear of something 
to his advantage — the usual formula — it might at- 
tract unscrupulous ones.” 

“ We might tell him his name was Howell Brad- 
ford!” said Mother eagerly. “But no — that 
wouldn’t do, for we don’t know that it is.” 


THE GROWN-UPS CONFER 


115 

“ I advertised in both those papers last winter — 
and in a Chicago newspaper, too,” said Father, 
quietly. 

“William! You did! And you never told me ! ” 
cried Mother. 

“ What was the use, when there was nothing to 
tell? Nothing came of it. I didn’t get an answer 
except one from a crack-brained critter who must 
have thought I was another. You’d been worrying 
yourself to skin and bone ever since New Years, when 
this thing started. And I thought if I kept quiet, 
things would get back to normal after a while.” 

“ And I thought you didn’t care! ” said Mother 
softly. 

“ I know you did — you seemed to forget that he 
was my son, as well as yours,” Father replied, his 
voice a little husky. They both seemed to forget 
that they were not alone, and a silence, embarrassing 
to the others, fell upon the group. 

Lois broke it with a remark about its getting late, 
and rose to go. Jim got up and went with her, al- 
though the girl protested that the moon was rising 
and that she was not a bit afraid! 

“ Well, I guess it’s pretty near bedtime,” said 
Father yawning, after the others had gone. 

“ Hadn’t we better wait for Jim? ” Mother ques- 
tioned. 

“ Not if I know it ! I’m tired. A pretty girl and 
a moonlight night are a combination that’ll hold Jim 
some time, unless he’s changed greatly. That is, of 
course, unless she gives him the cold shoulder — and 
I don’t think she will.” 


ELIZABETH BESS 


1 16 

“ Why don’t you think she will? ” asked Mother 
jealously. 

“Why? Because, my dear, they’re young.” 
Mother sniffed. “ Lois is a mighty nice girl,” 
Father went on, unheeding the sniff. “ And Jim’s 
a fine fellow, and it’s time he quit roving, and settled 
down. He’ll be thirty-one in December. There’s 
his half of the farm, that I’m not able to work as it 
ought to be done, even though William’s been doing 
’most a man’s work the past year. We don’t want 
to break him down.” 

“ I guess we don^ t want to break him down ! ” said 
Mother. “ All the same. I’m surprised and disap- 
pointed, if what you imagine about Lois is true. I 
' — I thought — ” a stinging pain contracted her 
throat, and she stopped. 

“ You thought a maid would be as loyal as a 
mother,” he said gently, taking her hand. “ ’Tisn’t 
in nature, Anne ! ” 

Mother pondered. “ I think it is — in Lois’s na- 
ture — looking back over the past four years,” said 
she judicially. “ That young surveyor last summer 
was crazy about her, and so was Doctor Wilbur’s son. 
And if Jim wants to settle down, there are other 
girls ! ” And though Father smiled in the darkness, 
it was a pitying and tender smile. 


CHAPTER XV 

Abraham’s “ accident ” 

I AHERE you are — six for you, and six for 
I me,” said William, counting out the ar- 

JL rows they had just made — of stiff, dry 

weed stalks, with a shingle nail inserted point first, in 
an end of each. The nails furnished the weight 
necessary for a straight flight; and, although not 
pointed, these nail-tipped shafts in the hands of a 
skilful archer might do considerable execution. 

“ And there’s your bow.” His sister took it from 
his hand, and examined it carefully — the smooth, 
elastic hickory withe, its ends notched for the bow- 
string that held them just the right distance apart. 

“ It’s an awful nice bow, Wee-um,” she announced; ^ 
“ and I’m awful glad to get it. I’m tired of sailing 
our boats, and skipping clam shells across the pond ! ” 

“ So’m I — kind of,” William confessed. The 
children were sitting on the grassy little knoll back 
of the barn, with the big butternut tree bending its 
wealth above them. 

“ Wee-um,” his sister asked him abruptly, what’s 
another kind of a bow? ” putting much stress on the 
vowel. 

“ Why, you have one on your hair,” William en- 
lightened her. 


117 


ii8 


ELIZABETH BESS 


Bess shook her head. “ No — ’tlsn’t that kind, 
either.” 

“ Who said it? Where’d you hear it? ” William 
asked with interest. 

“ Why, last night after supper, when I was putting 
my dollies to sleep, and Mother ’n’ Gran was doing 
the dishes — ” (this painful circumstantial evidence 
was lest William should again accuse her of “ eaves- 
dropping”). “Gran said to Mother, Wasn’t 
Uncle Jim getting to be Miss Lois’s bow.” 

“ She did ! And what did Mother say ? ” 

“ Mother said ‘ Mercy! No.’ And Gran said, 
‘ Well, it looks like it, to me/ And then Mother 
said — Your arrow is longer’n mine, Wee-um.” 

“ Go on — Mother said what? ” demanded Wil- 
liam. 

“ Mother said, ‘ Why, he’s too old for her for one 
thing — Lois is barely twenty.’ What is ‘barely,’ 
Wee-um? ” 

“ That means that she’s only just twenty. Well 
— did Gran think Uncle Jim was too old? ” 

“ I don’t know; Sara came and put me to bed then. 
But what is a bow, Wee-um? You didn’t tell me 
yet! ” 

“ Why,” said William blushing, “ a beau is some 
one that likes you, and gives you things.” 

“Oh!” cried Lizabeth Bess, enlightened. 
“ Then you’re my bow, Wee-um, ’cause you give me 
things — and you like me, don’t you? ” 

“ ’Course I do ! ” replied William frowning. 
“Get off my jacket! I had some crackers in that 
pocket, and I bet you’ve smashed ’em ! ” Thus he 


ABRAHAM’S “ACCIDENT 


diverted her mind from the ticklish subject; but he 
himself kept up a lively thinking. 

“Just see that old turkey gobbler, Wee-uml” 
cried his sister as a great, bronze Tom came strutting 
toward them. “ He’s after me the whole, blessed 
time, whenever I have a red dress on. He don’t give 
me a mite of peace ! ” 

“ Watch me give him a scare,” said William, fit- 
ting an arrow to his bow. 

“ Oh, Wee-um — don’t I ” She caught his hand. 

“ I’m only going to scare him,” William assured 
her; and then the arrow sped. Had he been trying, 
it is doubtful whether William could have accom- 
plished what now happened. The arrow, aimed at 
the glossy, fan tail of Abraham, as the bird was 
called, struck him on the head, a glancing blow. 
Whereupon the big bird jumped a yard in air, and 
then began gravely walking around in a circle, his 
head heavily tilted to one side. 

They heard Father come into the barn, cross the 
threshing floor, and unlatch the little door on their 
side; but by the time he got it open, the conspirators 
were out of sight. So, too, was the turkey, which 
had stumbled down the incline to the little cove, and 
lain down among the alders there. It was not until 
they were coming in from the milking that Father 
espied the suffering bird, gravitating toward the roost 
in crazy circles. 

“ Hello I What’s the matter with the gobbler? ” 
Father asked, setting down the brimming pails. 
William, after a critical examination of the question, 
decided that it was not really a question at all, but 


120 


ELIZABETH BESS 


rather in the nature of an exclamation: therefore, he 
did not answer. Lizabeth Bess, coming out to tell 
them supper was ready, observing William shaking 
his head and scowling behind Father’s back, also pre- 
served a discreet silence. 

With a further accession of discreetness, she 
slipped away, and went back to the house. 

“ Strange about that gobbler — he was all right at 
noon,” observed Father. “ Had you seen him like 
this before, William? ” 

“ I thought he was acting kind o’ queer this after- 
noon,” replied the veracious William. 

“ Never saw a fowl act like that before; he seems 
to be crazy,” Father went on. “ Well, I don’t know 
what to do for him, only to shut him up in the hos- 
pital, and see how he’ll be in the morning. It’s too 
bad!” 

Unquestionably it was too bad 1 William thought 
as, the last thing before going to bed, he lit the lan- 
tern and prepared to pay a visit to his victim’s 
cell. 

“ Oh, go to bed, boy! ” urged Mother, appreciat- 
ing his concern. “ You can’t do anything for him ! ” 
Whereat William again felt mean — “ meaner’n pus- 
ley! ” He was up at the peep of dawn, agreeably 
to the surprise of Father; and, as the boy followed 
his parent out for the early milking, some one called 
his name softly. Turning, he saw a little, night- 
capped head poked out of an upper window. 

“Is — is Aberham dead, Wee-um?” she stage- 
whispered. Frowning fiercely, William shook his 
head, and the night-capped one disappeared. 


ABRAHAM’S “ACCIDENT 


I2I 


That no direct question was put to the children 
goes to show that they were ordinarily a pretty good 
pair; but this trustfulness only added to their humilia- 
tion and remorse. At times, “ Aberham ” seemed to 
improve a little. He had sense enough to eat, and 
sometimes, pausing in his tread-mill round, would 
stand long in meditation. 

The one scrap of silver lining to the cloud was that 
now Bess could wear her red dress with immunity. 

One of the little girl’s chief treasures was a kaleid- 
oscope; when all things else palled she would spend 
hours gazing into its ever-changing depths. Some 
weeks after the gobbler’s “ accident,” she took a no- 
tion to experiment with her toy: she would hold it 
down deep in the horse trough, and see what effect 
the water would have on its colours ! 

The immediate result was nothing. Disap- 
pointed, she stood the glass on the flat stone to dry, 
when suddenly a woodpecker began tapping some- 
where up in the apple tree. It was exceedingly im- 
portant to learn whether the pecker was a grey head, 
a black-and-white, a red-head, or the one-with-the- 
hat. So ’round and ’round the tree walked the little 
naturalist, peering up until her neck ached. 

Triumphantly she located her bird at last: it was 
none of the kinds mentioned, but a long, slender, blu- 
ish-grey specimen, little and lively as a wren. 

The sun, which had been hiding, now came bril- 
liantly forth, and Bess decided to look through her 
glass at the day-star. Surely it would enhance the 
jewel-like colours! With the air of an old salt, she 
raised the glass to her eye. But whatever — what- 


122 ELIZABETH BESS 

ever was the matter with it? There were no colours 
there ! 

Trembling, she lowered the cylinder and examined 
it. The water had done its work! It had soaked 
off the band that held the glass disks in place. The 
outer one, with the bits of coloured glass heaped 
upon it, lay there on the flat stone like a little plate of 
candy. 

With a sobbing cry, their owner swooped upon the 
precious bits that seemed so few, compared with the 
hundreds that had glinted and gleamed in the reflect- 
ing glasses. Some of them must have fallen out, into 
the bottom of the trough. 

“ Maybe Wee-um can fix it if I can find the 
pieces I ” said the child, with a gleam of hope. 
Down on her knees beside the trough went she, look- 
ing like an enormous ladybug, in her dotted, red cal- 
ico dress ; when suddenly the sky fell — right on top 
of her I 

It was not in Elizabeth Bess Bradford to stay 
crushed to earth, however, and, as she struggled, the 
sky lifted. As she rose, it rose and stood beside her, 
extremely red in the face, and with one aggressive 
wing uplifted, giving forth challenging gutturals in 
the well remembered way. 

“ Aberham ! ” cried Elizabeth Bess, reckless now, 
of missing bits of glass. Reckless — nay, glad! — 
of the feathered whirlwind that followed her to the 
kitchen door. “ Come out everybody, quick! ” she 
shouted. “ Come out and see Aberham — he’s 
well!” 


CHAPTER XVI 

ONE SUNDAY IN NOVEMBER 


N 


"J" OW, Father, don’t tell him which way to 
go ! Just let the reins lie loose, and see 
whether he’ll go straight down Colony 
Street, or turn up Centre!” commanded his small 
daughter. She waited breathless until the old horse 
turned to the left and started up the street that led 
to the church — “ St. Rose’s on the Hill,” as the ivy- 
covered edifice was called. 

“See that?” she cried triumphantly. “Now 
doesn’t Charlie know it’s Sunday? ” 

“ He knows it’s Sunday, because the chatterbox is 
along,” said William. “ That is,” he elucidated, 
“ I mean he knows we’re going to church ’cause she 
is.” 


“ Well I Just as if I never came to town ’cept — 
Mother, make him stop 1 ” 

“ Hush 1 Children should be seen and not 
heard! ” Mother reminded her offspring. “ There, 
William,” turning to Father, “is the bell! We’re 
late; I wondered why so few people were going — 
they’re all gone ! ” 

“ I didn’t hear the first bell — did you? ” Father 
asked so innocently that Bess gave him a quick glance. 

123 


124 


ELIZABETH BESS 


“ What you winkin’ at, Father ? ” she asked, whereat 
Sara burst out laughing. 

“ Well, I declare! ” exclaimed Mother, a bit peev- 
ishly. “ No wonder no one is going, half an hour 
ahead of time. I might have waited and skimmed all 
my milk, and then been in plenty of time! ” 

“What’s that?” asked Gran, hand at ear. 
“ Ahead of time? Better an hour too early than a 
minute too late ! ” 

“ It’s easy to see where Father gets his punctuality 
from ! ” giggled Sara. “ I don’t care — we can take 
a nice drive around town. Father, take us to that 
lovely place where the peacocks are on the lawn, and 
the gold-fish in the fountain! ” And — “ Drop me 
at Mrs. Ford’s; I’ll walk up to church with her,” said 
Mother. 

Elizabeth Bess frowned. . . . Mother must think 
a lot of Mrs. Ford to give up a nice ride with her 
own fambly, just to walk to church with her ! 
Looked as if Mother liked Mrs. Ford better’n her 
own fambly ! 

She was still weighing the evidence pro and con 
when, as they approached the church a second time, 
who should come along with their mother but the 
Rickards children, Peter and Margie, a pair about 
the age of William and herself, but who were dis- 
tinctly persona non grata with her. In fact, she 
placed Peter in the same category with Charlie Hor- 
ton. 

The Rickards children’s father had lived in Green 
Hills years before, and was in the habit of making 
semi-occasional visits among his old neighbours, and 


ONE SUNDAY IN NOVEMBER 


125 


bringing the youngsters, who certainly made the most 
of these outings! Margie was not really bad, but 
Peter was a terror. 

During the hour and a half in church, w^here Bess 
sat between her parents, and consequently out of 
touch with William, it seemed as if she could not 
withdraw her gaze from the hateful pair. 

The music was beautiful! And her poetic soul 
which thrilled to William’s rendition of “ The Death 
of Napoleon,” and “ Bingen on the Rhine,” thrilled 
now when told how, although the “ Birds of the air 
. . . gather not into barns, yet your Heavenly 
Father feedeth them.” At the solemn hush, broken 
only by the silvery tinkle of a bell, she bowed her head 
with the rest; and, awed by a mystery but vaguely un- 
derstood, slipped a cold little hand into Mother’s 
warm one. 

The Bradfords, led by Mother, were among the 
first to leave the church. “ The children will have to 
miss Sunday school to-day, William,” she said to 
Father. “ I feel one of my headaches coming on, so 
let us get home as soon as possible.” Which meant, 
among other things, that her little daughter would es- 
cape the pestiferous attentions of the Rickards for 
that day’s session. 

Home from church, and dinner over, a beautiful 
Indian Summer afternoon enticed Elizabeth Bess out 
of doors with her dolls and toys. In fact, a dolls’ 
tea-party was progressing smoothly on the front 
porch, when Father, dozing on the dining-room 
lounge, was startled by cries of, “ Come here, some- 
body! Oh! Somebody come here, quick!” He 


126 


ELIZABETH BESS 


met Bess hurrying in, with dolls, dishes and food 
dribbling from her caught-up apron. 

“ Hurry and get the other fings ! ” she commanded. 
“ Those dretful Rickards child’n are coming, and 
they’ll break ’em all to pieces ! ! ” 

“ Dear me ! I thought you’d broke an arm or 
something,” grumbled the sleepy Father. 

“ I wisht I had ! Then the doctor’d be here, and 
he wouldn’t let ’em in! ” 

“ You call Sara: they’ll behave with her around,” 
and Father started out to meet his old neighbour. 

Call Sara, indeed! Sara was up at Hortons’, 
Mother was lying down. Gran ditto; Uncle Jim was 
in Hartford, and William — oh, where was Wil- 
liam? She hadn’t seen him since dinner. There 
was absolutely no one to call ! 

By the time she had rescued another armful of 
things, and dumped them in the hall closet, the visi- 
tors were at the door. A cool “ Hello,” was her 
answer to their vociferous greetings. Peter was 
twirling something between his hands, which his dis- 
mayed hostess saw was her old rag doll, Chloe, left 
behind in the stress of circumstances. 

“Oh, don’t do that!” cried the distressed little 
mother ; “ you’ll have her arms off ! Dont! ” 

“ Huh! She ain’t no good! ” scoffed Peter. . . . 
“ B’lieve they are loosenin’. What’ll you gimme to 
stop?” 

Rushing into the house, Bess caught up the first 
toy that offered — her treasured glass ball with the 
silver dog inside it. “ There ! ” she cried, shoving it 
into his hand, and catching the old doll to her breast. 


ONE SUNDAY IN NOVEMBER 127 

“ Oh, don’t I hate you, you bad boy ! Oh, if Wee-um 
was only here ! ” 

“Well, Wee-um ain’t here I” jeered the bully, 
turning the ball around and around in his big hands. 

As a matter of record, William was nearer than 
they imagined ; but all unconscious of his sister’s need. 

For some little time past, William had been la- 
bouring under the burden of a duty unfulfilled : an un- 
pleasant duty, but one which would brook no further 
postponement. So, just as soon as the dining-room 
was cleared after dinner, William tiptoed to the old 
secretary, and possessed himself of pen, ink and 
paper, which he carried under his jacket to the barn. 
Climbing away up to the scaffold under the rafters, 
where the sun streamed in through a tiny window, he 
spread his materials on the boards, and started to 
write a letter. It began : 

“ Miss Lois Horton, dear Miss — Do you think it’s 
right for you to forget some one you promised to remember, 
and to like some one else better? You know how it was 
with that mister Enock Arden when he come home and found 
his Anny dident like him any more. You know he went 
away, and dident come back. And there are peeple that 
don’t want Howell Bradford to go away again when he 
comes back, so please tell Uncle Jim — ” 

The writer caught himself up in a panic. Uncle Jim, 
indeed! What was he thinking of? With his pen- 
knife he scratched out the telltale word “Uncle,” un- 
til nothing remained but a hole in the paper. 

Well, now, what was it that he wanted Miss Lois 
to tell the deleted Uncle ? How should he word it ? 

As he bit his reluctant pen, it came to William that 


128 


ELIZABETH BESS 


Miss Lois was not the one to address in the matter. 
How would she feel — a girl — to get such a letter? 
No, sir! Uncle Jim was the one to tackle, provided 
he could ever get his courage up high enough. Con- 
fusion seized upon William, as he thought how near 
he had come to making a churlish blunder, and he 
tore the letter into little bits, and scattered them from 
the window. Then, with hands clasped beneath his 
head, he lay back and stared up at the cobwebby raft- 
ers until sleep — the deep sleep of youth — overtook 
him. 

His distracted sister longed for him in vain. See- 
ing the bully digging a hole in the ground with his 
heel, and still solicitous for the toy that was no longer 
hers, “You’ll scratch the glass — ’tisn’t a marble,” 
she told him. 

“ ’Tis if I say so,” he answered. Margie, who 
had so far taken no part in the hostilities, now put an 
arm around her suffering friend. 

“ Don’t you mind him, Bess — he’s a bad boy,” 
she whispered. “ Let’s you and me go to the barn 
and play.” 

“ All right,” her hostess whispered back. “ It’s 
lovely there. Father has drawed all the corn in on 
the thrashing floor, and Wee-um, my brover, has 
made wigwams of it, jes’ like Indians. He said he 
would if I’d help him husk.” 

They tiptoed away, casting fearsome glances be- 
hind. A last glance showed them Peter still playing 
with the marble; so with a mad rush they gained the 
barn doorway, where Margie paused, open-mouthed. 
Like wigwams indeed the shocks stood, with buffalo 


ONE SUNDAY IN NOVEMBER 129 

robes and gay blankets covering them. Skins of sev- 
eral woodchucks and muskrats, and one fine fox pelt 
were stretched upon the walls of the building, where 
also hung the children’s bows and arrows, and a pair 
of birch-bark quivers decorated with poke-berry ink. 
These were for looks. For comfort, William had 
installed an old-fashioned foot stove — the kind they 
used to use in sleighs in the bitter winter weather. 
The stove was cold now, of course, but a little heap 
of charcoal stood beside it. 

Bess glanced apprehensively behind her as they 
entered, and Margie, interpreting the glance, took 
hold of the big door with her. “ Let’s hook it 
quick, before he comes!” she whispered. “Oh! 
I’d like to live here forever! ” 

But the serpent was on their trail, and before they 
could fasten the door it was wrenched from their 
hands, and he came crowding in. 

“ Who fixed this up? ” he demanded. 

“ Wee-um did! ” proudly answered William’s sis- 
ter. 

“ Wee-um’s awful smart, ain’t he? ” 

“I didn’t say Wee-um — I said Wee-um. And 
he is smart — smarter’n any boy in Marion! ” she 
said bravely, considering that Marion was the bully’s 
town ; but he was too busy looking about to heed her. 
Now his gaze fell upon the little stove, which she was 
furtively trying to hide behind her short skirts. 

“ What ye got there ? ” he demanded. “ What ye 
tryin’ to cover up? ” He gave her a shove, and the 
little stove stood revealed. “ Huh! ” remarked the 
town boy, examining it with sprightly interest. 


130 


ELIZABETH BESS 


Drawing a match from his pocket, he started to 
light the fire, but his unwilling hostess clutched him by 
the shoulder. Her little face was tense as she told 
him, “You mustn’t light it! You mustn’t! No- 
body but Father and Wee-um can light that fire. 
Father said so ! ” 

“ G’wan ! ” answered the bully, scratching the 
match on the sole of his shoe. “G’wan away!” 
But Bess was not to be shaken off. Advancing upon 
him again with scowling brows and set teeth, she said 
in a terrible voice, 

“If you light that fire, Wee-um won’t leave a 
whole bone in your skin ! ” 

This was the awful threat that William had made 
the day young Eddie Horton had tried to push her 
into the pond. It had thrilled her being then as she 
listened, and it thrilled her even more now as she 
uttered it. 

The bully put an agile foot upon the burning 
match, as he eyed the child with something like re- 
spect. “ Aw, who wants to light a baby thing like 
that?” he queried contemptuously. “ I’m goin’ up 
in the hay.” 

He climbed the ladder to the hay mow above, and 
the little girls breathed a dual sigh of glad relief. 
This was but momentary, however, for from the hay 
mow presently ferocious growls and blood-curdling 
cries fell about them. Clasping each other, they 
gazed upward, to see the boy, with wide, staring eyes, 
gazing down. 

“ There’s a panther up here ! ” he yelled. “ An 
ol’ big panther, an’ he’s goin’ to jump right down on 


ONE SUNDAY IN NOVEMBER 13 1 

ye, if I don’t kill him first ! ” He disappeared in the 
hay; and the cries recommenced. 

The terror-stricken children made a rush for the 
door, but Margie, who was first, caught her foot on 
a cornstalk, and fell, and Bess fell on top of her. 
Margie thought it was the panther, and lay half faint- 
ing, unable to make a sound. Her companion was 
not much better, but she was making a valiant effort 
to drag Margie to her feet, when a new note from 
the top of the mow arrested her. 

“ You let me alone ! I ain’t done nothing! ” Peter 
was whining. And then she heard William say, 
“ Now, maybe you’ll scare a couple of little girls 
to death again!” (Whack, whack, whack.) 
“ Maybe you will,” (whack, whack, whack) . “ And 

then again, maybe you won!t!*^ (Whack, whack, 
whack!) William had jumped down from the scaf- 
fold to the mow, and come upon the bully from the 
rear. 

The little girls’ sobs turned to hysterical laughter 
as Peter came scrambling down the ladder. Even 
his sister, whom he habitually bullied, enjoyed his 
downfall; and whining and muttering, he betook him- 
self to his father’s wagon, where he sat and sulked. 

It was time, now, for William to go after the cows. 
Peter malevolently watched him out of sight, when, 
quick as an elf, he hopped out of the wagon, and into 
the parlour, where the little girls were playing. The 
high, old-fashioned mantel, whereon stood some of 
Bess’s treasures, caught his attention and climbing on 
a chair, he proceeded to examine them. 

“Oh, Margie, here’s something new!” he ex- 


132 


ELIZABETH BESS 


claimed, catching up a little green and yellow duck, 
that was seated on a box that squeaked when you 
pressed it. Peter made it squeak until he was tired. 
Then, taking it in both hands, meanwhile keeping his 
back to his small hostess, who was dodging around 
the chair, trying to see what he was up to, he deliber- 
ately tore open a corner of the box to see what made 
the noise. 

The men were coming in, so Peter, hastily replac- 
ing the duck, jumped down and seated himself with 
folded hands, while Bess, who knew in her heart that 
he had been in mischief, stood and glared at him. 
Peter’s father, a big, good-natured man, much given 
to joking, observing the tableau, said, 

‘‘ Bessie, now that William’s getting so big, you 
have no little brother to play with. Suppose I leave 
Peter here with you — what? ” 

“ Bessie ” nearly exploded. She cast an appealing 
glance at Father, but he was smiling vacuously. 
However, the little girl had not reached the mature 
age of “ going on six ” without having learned some 
diplomacy. Very sweetly, but very firmly, she an- 
swered : 

“ Oh, no, sir I I’m afraid you’d be lonesome with- 
out him I ” 


CHAPTER XVII 

RE-ENTER THE EAVESDROPPER 

“ Her brown silken dresses — her cheeks like the roses, 
There was none like my darling Daisy Deane ! ” 

sang Elizabeth Bess Bradford to her dolls. 

Pausing in the middle of a line, she meditated : 

“ Sara, do you s’pose Daisy Deane always wore 
brown silken dresses? ” she asked. “ I’d have liked 
a pink or a blue one sometimes ! ” 

“ Guess she did,” giggled Sara, who was playing 
checkers with William. “ She probably bought the 
silk by the bolt — it would come cheaper that way.” 

“ By the bolt ? What kind of a bolt ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, any kind I Hush up, Bess — how can we 
play when you’re talking? ” 

“ She’s just plaguing you ! ” William came to the 
rescue. “ A bolt of cloth’s a big, long piece. And 
the song doesn’t say her dresses, but her tresses — 
that means her hair.” 

“ Land o’ Goshen ! Dresses is hair, and bolts is 
cloth I ” cried the despairing Bess. Knowledge 
might be power, but the gaining of it was going to 
be “powerful” hard! 

The checker game finished, Sara went to the me- 
lodeon, and began to play and sing “ Just Before the 
133 


134 ELIZABETH BESS 

Battle.” Her little sister liked this, all except the 
lines 


“ When oh, the dreaded Minie struck me, 

And I sank amid the fray! ” 

Now, what was a “ Minnie ” doing in the war? 
War was for men! And what kind of a girl was 
she, anyway — going ’round and striking the poor 
sholdiers? And striking them so hard that they 
“ sank amid the fray ! ” (What was the fray?) 

A whistle sounded outside the window, and Wil- 
liam got up hastily and went out. Bess knew who it 
was — that miser’ble old Bunt Horton — coming 
’round and whistling for William ! — and William 
was big goose enough to go out to him I What could 
it be that he wanted, this time o’ night? They went 
around the house together, and she went out to the 
kitchen, and flattening her nose against the window, 
saw them go into the woodshed. 

Not for a long time had William had occasion to 
accuse his sister of “ snooping ’round ” — her re- 
formation was thought to be complete. But the best 
of us lapse at times 1 

The boys had lit a lantern, and were fussing over 
something in the shed; and the little girl, tiptoeing 
down the back steps, made her stealthy way to a 
point from which, as she thought, she could see and 
hear without being seen or heard. Charlie, it ap- 
peared, was showing William how to make a fishing 
creel from willow wands, and his tongue was as 
nimble as his fingers. 

“ No, I suppose you hain’t never seen a Ku-kluck,” 


RE-ENTER THE EAVESDROPPER 135 

he was saying. “ Neither have I, for that matter, 
unless it was Ku-kluckers that set fire to Irvings’ barn 
last month. And mind ye, some folks says it was.” 
(Here Bunt caught a glimpse of the little huddled 
figure, and proceeded to lay on the colour.) “ Some 
folks say they seen ’em sneakin’ round with torches 
in their hands, a little while before the fire broke 
out I ” 

‘‘Get out!” scoffed William. “The Ku-klux 
don’t go sneakin’ ’round; they put on white masks 
so’s you won’t know them, and then they come a- 
hootin’ and a-hollerin’, all on horseback! There 
was nothing like that at Irvings’ fire! ” 

“ Well, that’s what I heard. But even if it 
wasn’t them, they’re liable to be here any day; they’re 
cornin’ farther and farther north all the time. And 
they’re kidnappers too, them Ku-kluckers! They 
just clap a plaster over your mouth so’s you can’t 
holler, and then your goose is cooked. My father 
knew a little girl that was kidnapped: a feller stuck 
a piece of plaster over her mouth, tucked her under 
his arm, and they never seen her — ” 

A shadow darkened the woodshed door. There 
was a wild scramble and rush as Elizabeth Bess made 
her way to William, and clutched him with shaking 
hands. 

“ Aw, shut up ! ” cried William, frowning fiercely 
at Bunt, and putting an arm about the trembling 
youngster. 

“ And they never seen her no more ! ” finished 
Bunt with great satisfaction. 

“ Shut up, I tell you ! Go on home with your darn 


136 


ELIZABETH BESS 


lies I ” shouted William, as his little sister squirmed 
up into his arms, and buried her face in his neck. 

“ All right I Don’t believe it if you don’t want 
to I” drawled Bunt as he withdrew. “Just you 
wait and see, that’s all — just you wait! 

“ I hope they’ll kidnap him, the very first one I ” 
shivered the youngest Bradford, as they hurried into 
the house, walking sideways to frustrate a possible 
attack from the rear. 

“ It would be kind of a good riddance, that’s a 
fact I ” agreed William with heartiness I 


CHAPTER XVIII 

UNCLE JIM TAKES UP THE QUEST 

I F the editor of the Boston Globe was surprised 
when he received, by the same mail, two letters 
from women in a small Connecticut town, ask- 
ing for information of a man mentioned in the paper 
months before, the surprise was transitory. It was 
all in the day’s work I Everything is grist that comes 
to an editor’s mill ! 

He answered his correspondents courteously, and 
at some length: he could tell them nothing of L’Es- 
trange, as the reporter who “ wrote him up ” was no 
longer connected with the Globe, and nothing was 
known of his whereabouts. He seemed to have 
“ vanished as completely as L’Estrange himself,” so 
far as the editor knew. However, on the assump- 
tion that the finding of L’Estrange was of more than 
ordinary interest to his correspondents, he would 
have an “ Information Wanted ” notice inserted in 
to-morrow’s paper and be pleased to forward any 
information it might elicit. And there the matter 
rested. 

With the increasing frequency of Jim Bradford’s 
visits to the Horton domicile, a slight coolness — 
so very slight as to be imperceptible to an outsider, 
but felt distinctly by the two women — had come be- 
137 


138 


ELIZABETH BESS 


tween Mother and the Little Quaker Lady. There- 
fore the matter of writing to the Globe was not men- 
tioned between them. Neither knew that the other 
had done so. As a matter of fact, Jim’s visits were 
becoming an embarrassment to the girl, who began 
to cast about for some means of letting him know 
this, without actually telling him so. 

But to Elizabeth Bess Bradford, the present state 
of affairs was delightful. Now she and Bertha 
could often stay to supper at each other’s homes, as 
Uncle Jim was always willing to act as convoy and 
chaperon for his small niece or her friend. 

The picture in the locket was not the only memento 
Lois possessed of her soldier. There was an odd lit- 
tle ring that he had given her when they were still 
in the district school together. 

Years before, when Howell was a baby, his proud 
grandmother had presented him, (passing over the 
head of his father and uncle), with his grandfather’s 
chain and seal, to be worn when he should be old 
enough to appreciate them. So Howell had donned 
the gift with his first “ store clothes ” : that is, the 
chain proper. The seal, and the section from which 
it depended, he removed, as being too conspicuous; 
and besides, he had another use for it. 

Even young as they were — little more than chil- 
dren — an understanding already existed between 
Howell and Lois. They considered themselves 
bound to each other. In token of this, the boy had 
made a ring from the unused piece of chain. From 
some extra links he formed a sort of true-lover’s- 
knot by way of signet; and as the links were of a 


UNCLE JIM TAKES UP THE QUEST 139 

peculiarly delicate and elaborate pattern, the result 
was a ring not only distinctive, but beautiful. 

Lois had never worn it in public since her lover 
went away, because of some vague, maidenly scruple; 
but one evening when Jim was expected to escort his 
small niece home, she took out the ring, and put it 
on her finger. 

Jim espied it at once, and when the others had left 
them and the two little girls alone in the sitting-room, 
with the freedom that their comradeship warranted, 
he lifted her hand for a nearer view. 

“Something new?” he asked, with an entirely 
spurious lightness, in view of the fact that the ring 
adorned the second finger of the left hand, which, in 
the Sixties, was the “ engagement ” finger. 

“Oh, no I I’ve had it a long time!” Lois an- 
swered. 

“ Kept it pretty effectually concealed, haven’t 
you? ” 

“I seldom wear it; it’s a trifle large, for one 
thing.” 

“ It would be an easy matter to remove one of the 
links.” 

“Oh! I wouldn’t think of doing that!” cried 
Lois hastily. 

Jim looked at her searchingly. He had forgotten 
the “ little pitcher,” industriously sewing dolls’ cloth- 
ing with Bertha. “ I infer that you think a good 
deal of that ring,” he remarked. 

“Yes, I do,” Lois answered tremulously. She 
was nervously fingering a little silver pencil, and the 
ring glinted in the light with every motion. Sud- 


140 


ELIZABETH BESS 


denly Jim bent again to examine it, but this time he 
did not touch her hand. 

“ Pardon my scrutiny; but there seems to be some- 
thing familiar about that ring,” he said slowly. 
“ I’m sure I’ve seen it somewhere, and I’m trying to 
remember where.” 

“ Doubtless you have,” said Lois evenly. “ It is 
part of what was an heirloom in your family. How- 
ell gave it to me.” 

Jim Bradford drew a long breath. “ I see I ” was 
all he said, and then they both fell silent. 

At the name “ Howell,” Bess glanced up quickly 
from her sewing, and took note of the absorbed faces 
before the fire. Neither of the grown-ups noticed 
her, and she bent again to her work, with an ear to 
windward* After a little, she heard Uncle Jim 
say, 

“ After all, he’s luckier than most of us. If I 
thought any one would be loyal to me after four or 
five years — ” 

“ It isn’t just mere loyalty,” Lois interrupted. 
“You heard what his mother said that evening — 
that she was still hoping and waiting? Well, so 
am 1.” 

“Impossible!” Jim burst out. “I never heard 
of such foolishness! ” 

“ Call it what you like,” said Lois coldly. 

Again there was a silence, while Jim tried to get 
himself in hand. He saw that he had cut the ground 
from under his own feet, and was trying to think 
how he could redeem his mistake. 

“ I have made you angry,” he said, regarding the 


UNCLE JIM TAKES UP THE QUEST 141 

severe set of her features against the background of 
flame. “ But if you will consider my position for a 
moment — you see I had thought there might be 
hope for me. And it’s rather hard, don’t you think? 
— to fall from the heights of hope to the depths of 
despair without any warning? ” 

‘‘ I know it is, Jim,” she answered softly, with a 
swift touch of her hand on his. 

“ Then be a little bit kind,” he pleaded. “ Just 
put yourself in my place — if you can.” 

To the listening child, this talk of falling from the 
heights of hope to the depths of despair, if puzzling, 
was none the less thrilling. She whispered the words 
over and over so as to be able to remember them — 
“ Hikes of hope — deps of dispair.” It was so pro- 
voking to start to ask William the meaning of some- 
thing, and find she had forgotten what the thing was. 

“ Hikes of hope, deps of dispair,” she was repeat- 
ing, with elaborate lip motion, when she caught Lois’ 
eye fixed upon her, and blushed guiltily. But the fat 
was in the fire — Lois turned the back of the big 
wing chair squarely upon her, and thereafter the two 
spoke in an undertone. 

It was just like the inconsiderateness of grown- 
ups I Well, she hoped they would make their throats 
sore, grunting like that I When it was so much easier 
to speak out, too I 

“ I think I can put myself in your place, if you will 
do likewise,” Lois answered her suitor. “ You have 
known me such a little while, Jim. You were always 
away, beginning at college, ever since I was the size 
of these,” she nodded towards the children, “ while 


142 


ELIZABETH BESS 


Howell and I had been together all that time. At 
school and at play — he was always doing something 
for me. I remember I was crazy about plums. 
There was a tree in Gorham’s pasture — sour, 
crabbed things, it puckers my mouth to think of them 
— but Howell braved a ferocious bull to get some 
plums for me, and got himself treed. He was up 
there till Mr. Gorham went after the cows at night, 
and drove the bull away.” She laughed softly at 
the remembrance, and Jim knew that she had for- 
gotten his presence. He could have groaned in the 
soreness of his heart! 

“ Let me understand just what you mean by ‘ wait- 
ing and hoping,’ ” said he, phlegmatically judicial. 
“ Does it mean that you are to sacrifice yourself in- 
definitely to this fetish ? That you are to go on wast- 
ing your youth, eating out your heart for a crazy 
notion? For that’s what it is, Lois — just a crazy 
notion. You might better be an East Indian suttee, 
and get the thing over at once, than to prolong the 
agony like this I ” 

“ Whether I am wise or foolish,” answered Lois, 
whose face had grown quite white, “ time will show. 
But this fact remains: Until I know, positively, 
that Howell Bradford is dead, I shall never think 
of another man ! ” 

“ Then the burden of proof remains with me,” said 
Jim slowly. “ Very well. I’ll take the challenge. 
To-morrow I’ll start, and I promise you I’ll get re- 
sults, one way or another, before I stop. If my 
brother’s boy is alive, and I can find him, and restore 
him to his home — and to you — I hope I’m man 


UNCLE JIM TAKES UP THE QUEST 143 

enough to do it without whining. If I find proof 
of the other kind, will it mean — what will it mean 
for me, Lois — from you? ” 

“ I can only say — that in that case — ” she medi- 
tated each word — “ I will do my best to give you 
what you will have deserved — sometime — if 
you don’t get tired waiting. But I can’t promise 
anything. Do, do forget me I You knew nice girls 
in the South, surely? Why not look up one of 
them? ” 

Jim laughed ironically. “ Here you are advising 
me to do what you yourself, in yourself, would con- 
sider most disloyal. Hello! Bess has succumbed! ” 
as the little girl’s head drooped forward onto the 
table. 

“ You are sure, then,” he said, taking Lois’s hand 
in his, “ that all this isn’t a piece of sheer romanti- 
cism? That your heart and not your imagination is 
involved? ” 

“ I’m sure,” she faltered, the tears rushing to her 
eyes. 

“ Good-bye, then,” he said, and lifted her hand to 
his lips. 

Elizabeth Bess opened sleepily smiling eyes as 
Uncle Jim lifted her in his arms, then snuggled con- 
tentedly down with her head on his shoulder, and 
an arm about his neck. Lois held the door open to 
light him down the steps with his burden. He turned 
at the foot, and said “ Good-bye again ! ” and then 
the darkness hid him. 

Jim had said he would go “ to-morrow,” and to- 
morrow he went, with few explanations, and after 


144 


ELIZABETH BESS 


hurried arrangements with a neighbour who wanted 
to rent his part of the farm for the coming year. 

He had been letting himself think, morbidly, as 
he made his few preparations — that he was only a 
fifth wheel — that his comings and goings counted 
for little or nothing to anybody, when the storm of 
protest that greeted his announced departure quite 
changed his point of view. His small niece did not 
seek to hide her grief in the pillow of the spare bed 
— she voiced it loudly in his arms, leaving the pillow 
to Sara. 

But what touched the still boyish heart of Jim the 
most was when William, who had driven in with him 
to the three o’clock train, said good-bye, and he saw 
the lad’s sturdy chin quiver a little as he said it. 

Jim rightly interpreted this show of feeling: 
“ It’s not I, but what I stand for to him that he’s 
missing, and that’s a big brother I ” and for the first 
time he warmed to the task before him. “ If How- 
ell should be alive, and have the right stuff in him, 
his coming home will be the best thing that ever 
happened to this boy.” 

His spirits rose as the train swept him on to New 
York; and hope for himself, whatever the outcome 
of his quest, rose with them. 

Perhaps the whilom lovers would find, upon meet- 
ing, that things were not as they had been before. 
Meetings after long separations not infrequently 
proved the death of romance! And then — 1 

But the “ then ” and now were far apart. 


CHAPTER XIX 

THE GOLDEN RULE 



iHINGS seemed deadly dull after Uncle Jim’s 


going. True, now that the fall work was 


JL over, Chinney and Mrs. Chinney dropped 
in oftener, which was, of course, delightful. And 
calls with other interesting grown-ups were more fre- 
quently exchanged. 

Another nice thing happened the first time Miss 
Lois called after Uncle Jim’s departure: slight as 
had been the misunderstanding between Mother and 
the Little Quaker Lady, Bess’s keen eyes had discov- 
ered it. Now to her surprise. Mother took Lois’ 
hand — the one with the ring — in hers, and then 
they put their arms around each other, and kissed 
affectionately. Whereupon Lois decided definitely 
that that ring had been laid away too long. It was 
in its rightful place now, and there it should stay. 

One thing that rankled in the child’s bosom, was 
the fact that Bertha — Bertha, who was three whole 
weeks younger than she was, had begun going to 
school I Not that Bertha wanted to go to school! 
She loathed the very thought of it; and sobbed out 
her grief and rebellion upon the heaving bosom of 
her friend, who would have been charmed had the 


146 


ELIZABETH BESS 


opportunity been given to her. But Miss Lois was 
impressed with the wisdom of catching your pupil 
young. Besides, a man teacher, and a “ college 
student ” at that, had been engaged to teach the 
young idea that winter, and Lois wanted Bertha to 
reap the benefit accruing from this opportunity. 

But Bess “ was subject to colds I ” She had heard 
Mother and Mrs. Cone talking it over, and agreeing 
that it would be the part of wisdom to keep her at 
home until spring. And although she went out into 
the kitchen and stamped and kicked and gritted her 
teeth, the wisdom of this decision was already ap- 
parent, for here with the very first snow, she had a 
bad cold, and a “ most distressing cough,’’ Mother 
said. 

And by the same token, there was now, out in the 
kitchen on the back of the stove, a dish containing 
onion syrup. It was a pretty dish, and covered over 
with a pretty, Japanese saucer; so that you might 
have thought there was something nice in it — some 
dainty being kept warm for somebody, if its sicken- 
ing smell did not betray it! 

The imprisoned child took her slate and pencil 
and went out into the kitchen, where the winter sun 
shone brightest. The room was deserted. She 
glanced at the stove, tilted her head toward the door, 
and listened. If she were only sure that nobody 
would come while she was doing it, she would carry 
the dish to the sink, and empty it out. But she would 
probably burn herself 1 

If it were not such a pretty dish — too pretty to 
be put to such base uses I — she could push it off onto 


THE GOLDEN RULE 


147 


the floor and smash it, and let them think Nero had 
whipped it off with his flail of a tail, as had happened 
once or twice before. 

The pantry door opened so suddenly as to make 
the little schemer jump. “ Where have you been, 
dear? ” asked Mother. “ I was calling you to take 
your syrup. My! It’s all drying up here on the 
stove. Hand me that teaspoon.” 

“ I wish it would dry up — every single, last drop 
of it I ” said her little daughter fiercely. “ Nasty old 
stuff I ” 

“ The idea I Don’t you want your cold to get 
well, so that you can go outdoors again? ” 

“ I want my cold to get well with castaroil. I 
don’t mind castaroil a bit.” She peered into the cup 
as Mother dipped in the spoon. “ So you thought 
that stuff was all dryin’ up, did you? ” she asked with 
sarcasm. “ Why, all that would never dry up in the 
wide world ! ” 

“ Aw, you dry up 1 ” drawled William from the 
doorway. “ You’ve got altogether too much lip, for 
one of your size I ” Then he fled, laughing. His 
sister would have followed to administer punishment 
for this addition of insult to injury; but Mother 
placed a firm hand on her shoulder, and presented 
the brimming spoon. 

“ Now run and get your basket of pieces, and 
Grandmother ’ll show you how to make that new 
block for your quilt,” said she. “ I must take Wil- 
liam to town to get an overcoat, but Sara ’ll be home 
from school before long.” 

William was going to get a new overcoat, was he? 


148 ELIZABETH BESS 

“And what do / get?” she asked with drooping 
mouth. 

“ Well, if you’re a good girl, I’ll bring you some 
popcorn balls.” 

A twinkle came into the child’s eyes, and she turned 
aside to hide a snicker. Didn’t make any difference 
whether she was a good girl or not; Mother never 
came home without popcorn balls, or something. 
And was it supposable that she would do so now, 
when her daughter had a bad cold, and a most dis- 
tressing cough? No indeed it wasn’t I 

She watched the sleigh out of sight down the hill, 
then brought her little rocking chair and basket of 
pieces into Gran’s room, where the two settled them- 
selves for a cosy afternoon. They might have been 
two old ladies, or two tiny girls, so harmoniously did 
they work together — so perfectly did their rockers 
keep time. 

When the clock struck three — the big, booming 
kitchen clock that successfully assailed even Gran’s 
dulled ear drums, she said, “ It’s time to take your 
medicine now, dearie — run along, like a good 
girl I” 

Her granddaughter eyed her reproachfully. “ I 
did hope that you would forget about that old onion 
syrup. Gran,” said she. “ I would ’ve, if ’twas you 
had to take it I ” 

Gran’s deafness was suddenly worse. “ Oh, no, 
don’t take more than one spoonful I ” she admon- 
ished. “That’s a plenty! And then you’ll find a 
seed-cake on the pantry shelf.” 

With lagging step, the victim started down stairs. 


THE GOLDEN RULE 


149 

but stopped at the landing to look out of the win- 
dow. 

Who was that coming down the road, away off up 
there by Hortons’? Well! If it wasn’t Bertha, 
and coming as fast as her fat legs could carry her I 
She must have stayed home from school — and could 
it be that she was coming down to spend the after- 
noon? It must be! 

The child rushed down to the door, where the two 
met In a fervent embrace. “ I’m awful glad to see 
you, Burfa!” the hostess cried. “Come on up- 
stairs, and Gran’ll give you some patchwork to do. 
Me and her’s having the lovllest time ! ” 

“ Oh, LIzbuf, I can’t! ” cried Bertha, on the verge 
of tears. “ Is your muvver at home, Lizbuf ? ” 
Bertha, who lisped at all times, lisped worse under 
the stress of excitement. 

“No; there isn’t a livin’ soul home but just me 
and Gran and Nero. What’d you want her for, 
Burfa?” 

“Oh, my brover — my big brover Charlie — ’s 
sick wif a bad cold. My mama says he’s all choked 
up like the crook, and she wants some of what your 
muvver gives for colds and crooks — quick! ” 

A great thought — two great thoughts — thrilled 
Lizbuf at this plea. Her mother had recently been 
reproving some little leanings toward revenge in her 
younger daughter. “ We must do good, instead of 
bad, to the people we don’t like,” she had told her, 
in explanation of the Golden Rule. 

Here then, was her opportunity to do good to 
some one she didn’t like ! “ I’ve got just the very 


150 


ELIZABETH BESS 


thing, Burfa, — if ’tisn’t all dried up ! ” She 
snatched the cover off the onion syrup. Dried up, 
indeed! Mother had added more water, and the 
dish was more than half full 1 Bess shuddered at the 
narrowness of her escape ! 

With a firm hand, she poured the golden syrup 
into the tiny stone jug Bertha had brought, and 
jammed in the cork. “ I’m giving it all to you to 
take to Charlie, Burfa,” she said largely; “every 
single bit. And mind you don’t spill a drop of it! ” 

“ I won’t, Lizbuf, and I fink you’re just the bestest 
girl! ” was Bertha’s encomium, as she departed. 

The unearned seed-cake forgotten, Elizabeth Bess 
rushed to the landing, from where she watched the 
convoy of the onion syrup, up the winding road. 
When, without slip or stumble, the pudgy Bertha dis- 
appeared within her own door, the little one sat down 
on the stairs, and hugged herself in glee. 

“ There’s gallons and quarts of it! ” she chortled. 
“ Pints and gallons and quarts! ” 

“ Where are you, dearie — why don’t you come ? ” 
quavered Gran’s voice above. 

“ I’m all right. Gran — I’m a-comin’ ! ” she called 
back. 

As they resumed their sewing. Gran, who was not 
deaf (or only slightly so) to her favourite’s voice, 
noticed that she was singing her favourite hymn — 
“ I Want to be A Nangel! ” And looking into the 
innocent, uplifted face of her grandchild, the quick 
moisture of old age clouded her eyes. 

“Bless her little heart!” said Gran to herself, 
“ All she lacks of it this minute, is the wings! ” 


CHAPTER XX 
** Cum Grano Salts! 


O N the floor of the South barn, close under the 
square window, stood the big sleigh with the 
bulging, wing sides, and the swans on the 
curved dashboard — when it was not in use. And 
here the children loved to linger, when there was 
nothing in particular for them to do. This was in 
the second story, over the basement stables; and 
from the square window one could, like the Ladye in 
one of Gran’s old songs, “ Look forth o’er dale and 
down.” That is to say, out over the barnyard, 
where its grassy slopes dipped to the brook; to the 
pond, below, and the woods on the farther side. 

Here it was that the shy William came to practice 
his “ pieces ” for school declamation, with his small 
sister for indulgent audience. And it is safe to say 
that no scene from grand opera — no tragedy por- 
trayed in later years by a Booth or an Irving, ever 
thrilled that audience as did William’s rendition of 
“ Horatius at the Bridge,” “ Rienzi’s Address,” 
“ Bingen on the Rhine ” — or, most delightful of all 
to the little woods lover, “ Hiawatha.” 

Upon one occasion, after she had listened, rapt, 
while William told how the Little Hiawatha 


152 


ELIZABETH BESS 


“ Learned of every bird its language, 

Learned their names and all their secrets — 

Talked with them whene’er he met them, 

Called them ‘ Hiawatha’s Chickens ’ ” — 

Bess, when William had gone away, thought she 
would try it herself. She stood with her back to 
the barn door, and he, who was near and heard her 
talking softly, approached and treacherously lis- 
tened, and also shamelessly peeked I 

“ First — Bow! ” said Elizabeth Bess Bradford, 
and bowed, deeply. Then she cleared her throat 
sonorously, as he always did before beginning; thrust 
her hands deep in her little coat pockets, cleared her 
throat again, and began — 

“ Then the little Higher Walker — ” 

Whereat the listener stuffed his tippet into his 
mouth, and stole away. 

Bess was crazy to catch birds for pets. She had 
read about people making little “ cribs ” of willow 
wands, and placing bait inside to decoy the song- 
sters; and one day Father found her with a sieve 
uptilted and a string attached — the other end of 
the string in his daughter’s hand where she sat in 
the back kitchen doorway, waiting for an unwary 
chickadee. 

“ Child, that’s no way to catch birds ! ” he admon- 
ished her. 

“ What is the way, then? ” she demanded. 

“ When you want to catch a bird just have some 


“CUM GRANO SALISI 


153 


salt with you, and put the least little pinch on its 
tail. Then you can catch it, without any difficulty,” 
Father assured her. 

After that, Bess seldom went abroad without a 
tiny bag of salt in her pocket. But the trouble then 
was she couldn’t get near enough to put the salt on 
the birds’ tails I 

However, upon one memorable day, she was in 
the barn, amusing herself by writing in the hay dust 
on the floor when a little shadow darkened the “ cat 
hole ” in the door, (every farmer had a cat hole in 
the bottom of his barn door), near where she was 
sitting, and a grey-and-white snowbird hopped in! 
In her ecstatic delight, she sat so rigid that the bird 
took her for a part of the “ scenery,” and came 
within reach of her hand. But alack and alas! 
The little bag of salt was in the house, so of what 
avail was this propinquity? Bess could have cried 
out in her disappointment but for fear of scaring the 
bird away. Back and forth hopped the visitor, cock- 
ing its head to discover the seeds in the dust, and 
even scratching for them like a chicken but with an 
inconceivable lightness and grace. 

This last was so funny that the spectator could 
not repress a giggle ; whereupon the bird took fright, 
and was gone. 

The child told the “ fambly ” about it at the 
dinner table. “ Well, why didn’t you catch it, when 
it was so near? ” asked Sara. 

“ Catch it 1 How could I catch it when I didn’t 
have my salt along? ” her small sister demanded. 
Father nearly choked over “ a piece of meat that 


154 


ELIZABETH BESS 


went the wrong way,” he said, but he was wiping 
the tears from his eyes when he returned to the 
table. All the others were smiling, and the young- 
est Bradford swept them with an indignant glance. 

“ I don’t see anything to laugh at when Father 
gets choked I” she said scathingly; at which an- 
other piece came very near “ going the wrong way.” 

“ Well, I’ll have my salt along next time 1” de- 
clared Bess. “ And you’d better get the old bird 
cage down out of the garret. Mother — you’d bet- 
ter get it down to-day! ” 

“ It’ll be ready when you bring in the bird,” 
Mother replied with surprising calmness, consider- 
ing the imminence of the event. 

“ I’ll bet it won’t! I know you. Mother Brad- 
ford. You’ll be saying — ‘Oh, here comes Bess 
with a bird, and I haven’t got the cage down yet! ’ ” 


CHAPTER XXI 


WHAT HAPPENED IN PHILADELPHIA 


~"ORTNIGHT had passed since Jim Bradford 



started on what, from the first, he had 


JL A. felt to be a wild goose chase. He had 
travelled a good bit in those two weeks, and since 
he could not afford to give his time and money ex- 
clusively to the search, he had followed the lead of 
the elusive “ L’Estrange,” and become an agent for 
the sale of vehicles, territory unlimited. Competi- 
tion was less keen in those days, and salesmen were 
not, as a rule, restricted to certain territories. 

In the middle of December, therefore, Jim found 
himself in Philadelphia. One of his first acts, upon 
entering a city was to search the directory for 
Bradfords and L’Estranges, and this he did now. 
The Bradfords were easily disposed of, since so 
far he had found no “ Howell ” among them; the 
L’Estranges constituted a harder and more delicate 
proposition, since he had no given name to guide 
him, and tact and diplomacy were required. 

Fortunately, so far, the L’Estranges had been 
few; but here was a goodly list of them, and Jim 
groaned in spirit as he thought of what was before 
him. 


155 


ELIZABETH BESS 


156 

It was his second day in the city, and he was mak- 
ing a double canvass — of carriage warehouses, and 
of places where sundry L’Estranges were employed, 
when he found himself in a dingy street near the 
river front, where excavating for some new build- 
ings was going on. Busy with his thoughts, Jim 
failed to notice that he had the street practically to 
himself, until he was recalled by some one calling 
excitedly, and hurrying footsteps behind him. 

Turning, he faced a slim young fellow half a 
square away, and found that he was calling to him. 
Notwithstanding the fact that Jim considered his 
quest a bootless one, he was always prepared for 
what might happen; so now he took in at a sweeping 
glance the personality of his follower. He was 
lithe and well built, handsome and well dressed, and 
there was something about the thrust of his chin 
that made Jim think of his grandfather Bradford. 

Not for a moment, though, did Jim think it might 
be Howell who was shouting at him. Howell al- 
ways appeared before his mind’s eye as rather un- 
kempt and poorly dressed; a slouching figure search- 
ing furtively, Wandering-Jewlike, for what always 
evaded him. 

Suddenly he began to understand that the man 
was warning him : 

“ Come back ! — they’re blasting ! Don’t you see 
the street’s closed?” he called, pointing ahead to a 
barrier with a big sign to that effect upon it. Jim 
saw it then, and also the pile of timbers chained to- 
gether to check the flying debris, and turned to run. 
But he was too late. There was a rumble and a 


IN PHILADELPHIA 


157 


roar, the chained timbers tilted up on end as if they 
had been a bundle of matches, and, falling over, 
carried Jim down with them. The cloud of dirt 
and gravel which peppered the stranger, fifty feet 
away, would have ended Jim’s career then and there 
had he got the full force of it; but the mass of it 
went over his head. As it was, nobody would have 
recognised the cut and bleeding face as belonging to 
the brisk pedestrian of a moment before I 

In a twinkling a crowd had gathered, coming as 
if up out of the ground. A policeman sent in an 
ambulance call, and he and the stranger stood guard 
over the unconscious man until the wagon arrived. 
The officer searched Jim’s pockets for something by 
which to identify him, but there was nothing except 
an old envelope with some figures on the back and 
a memorandum book. 

The young man whose efforts to save him had 
failed was much affected by poor Jim’s predica- 
ment. Sitting down on the curb, he took his head 
in his lap, and tried to staunch the blood with his 
handkerchief, and to dislodge some of the sand and 
dirt from beneath the swollen eyelids. Upon the 
arrival of the ambulance, he got in with the doctor, 
and rode to the hospital. 

“ Friend of yours? ” queried the doctor, noticing 
his companion’s perturbation. 

‘‘ No; I don’t know that I ever saw him before. 
And yet there was certainly something familiar 
about his face when he turned and looked at me, in 
the instant before he fell. But it has happened^ so 
many times — so many times, now,” he said to him- 


ELIZABETH BESS 


158 

self, forgetful of the presence of the doctor, who 
turned and looked at him sharply. 

“Well, anyway, give me your name; we like to 
have the name of some one when a patient enters: 
some friend, you know. And you’ve shown your- 
self that.” 

“ You may have it for what it’s worth, and that’s 
nothing,” the stranger replied cryptically. “ L’Es- 
trange is the name.” The clock in the hospital 
tower boomed out the first of eleven strokes, and 
L’Estrange hastily took out his watch, and com- 
pared the time with it. “ I must be going ! ” he ex- 
claimed. “I must get that 11:37 train for New 
York.”^ 

“Going to take in the re-union there? I im- 
agine you were a soldier,” the doctor hazarded. 

“ Yes, I was a soldier; and I’m going to the re- 
union. But I hate to leave this poor fellow here 
alone.” 

“ Oh, he’ll be taken care of,” the doctor prom- 
ised. “ He won’t get a thirty-dollar-a-week room, 
but he’ll get just as good treatment as if he were 
a millionaire. Don’t you worry! Good-bye I” 
The door of the elevator cage clanged shut; doctor 
and patient rose out of sight, and L’Estrange, with 
a heavy sigh, took his way toward the station. 

Jim’s period of unconsciousness was mercifully 
prolonged. The surgeons at first feared a fracture 
of the skull, but although this proved groundless, the 
concussion was severe. The principal injury was 
to his eyes, which were filled with dirt and sand; 
and the inflammation and pain in the abrased sur- 


IN PHILADELPHIA 


159 

faces, even after the sand was removed, was almost 
maddening. 

Upon removing his clothing, a purse and a letter 
or two were found in a “ blind ” pocket. But Jim, 
upon recovering consciousness, refused to allow the 
attendants to write to his family — “they all had 
troubles enough of their own,” he said. However, 
the superintendent, keeping his own counsel, en- 
closed a letter addressed to “ Miss Lois Horton, 
Green Hills, Conn.,” in one of his own, explaining 
the situation, and sent them North in the first mail. 

Needless to say that the Little Quaker Lady’s 
heart was filled with sorrow and consternation on 
receipt of the news. She immediately determined 
to go to Jim, without saying anything to anybody 
except her mother. He had, presumably, been hurt 
in her service ; and it was for her to do for him any- 
thing that could be done. If she found, upon reach- 
ing him, that he needed his brother, very well; she 
would send for him. If not, she would look after 
Jim herself. 

So Lois packed her satchel and started for Phila- 
delphia, which seemed a long, long way from the 
little Connecticut village among the hills. 

When shortly after noon the hospital was 
reached, an immaculate nurse dressed all in white — 
a splendid, stately creature, who filled the Little 
Quaker Lady with awe but warmed her with kind- 
liness as well, led Lois to Jim’s cot. His eyes were 
still bandaged, but he was entirely conscious, and 
at the sound of her sweet voice, the memory of his 
pains dropped from him. 


i6o ELIZABETH BESS 

“ My, my! but it’s good to see you, dear, or to 
hear you, rather,” he said, holding her hand in both 
of his. And the splendid young nurse smiled to 
herself — a cryptic smile — and left them alone to- 
gether, for a little while. Later, as his strength re- 
turned, Jim told Lois the brief story of the acci- 
dent, and about the stalwart youth with the Brad- 
ford chin who had tried to warn him. 

The ambulance surgeon, who had taken an in- 
terest in Jim because of his patience and grit, came 
in as he was telling it. “ I believe I didn’t mention 
that he came to the hospital with you, did I ? ” he 
asked. “Yes; he was holding your head, and try- 
ing to wipe the blood off it when I got to you. He 
seemed greatly disappointed when on our first search 
we could find nothing to identify you by. Said he 
was sure he had seen you somewhere, but couldn’t 
place you.” 

Lois’ face had grown very white. “ You didn’t 
learn his name? ” she asked tremulously. 

“ Yes, I did. He gave it to me, as a matter of 
form, merely — as being the only friend within 
reach.” The doctor drew a notebook from his 
pocket, and began turning the leaves. “ He hated 
to leave you alone, but was on his way to the big 
soldiers’ convention in New York; and I assured 
him we’d take the same care of you as if you were 
a millionaire ! ” he said laughing. “ Here is the 
name — L’Estrange.” 

“ U Estrange! ” cried Jim in a shaken voice. 
While Lois looked so much like fainting that the 


IN PHILADELPHIA 


i6i 


astonished and puzzled doctor rang sharply for a 
nurse. “ I seem to have blundered upon a mys- 
tery,” he remarked. 

“ You have,” Jim answered, while Lois made a 
desperate effort to get herself in hand before the 
nurse came. 

Not feeling equal to taking up the matter with 
Jim just then she got away as soon as possible, and 
walked square after square of the wind-swept streets, 
heedless of where she was going. Hope had risen 
high in the heart of the Little Quaker Lady. Surely 
this stranger must have been her lover! The fact 
of his being alive seemed to her established. This 
being so, there must — there should be some way of 
reaching him! Jim had asked the doctor if L’Es- 
trange had given his address, and he said “ No.” 
But there were other ways! The world was not 
so large, since these two had actually met ! 

Why, it might be that he was here in Philadelphia 
now ! She might meet him ! 

Like a cloud obscuring the sun came to Lois’ mind 
the thought of Evangeline’s quest for her lover. 
How near they had come to each other, yet, “ like 
ships that pass in the night,” they had drifted apart, 
to meet no more until life was ending! 

So sudden and sharp was the reaction, that Lois, 
who was crossing a little park, sat down on a bench 
to think the thing out. A bill-poster was at work 
just opposite and, as she unconsciously followed his 
movements, the most extraordinary thing happened : 
the man slapped a sheet against the board and, with 


ELIZABETH BESS 


162 

a few deft sweeps of his brush, stuck it fast, and 
stooped for another. And there, unfolded before 
Lois’s unbelieving eyes, stood out the name — 

HOWELL BRADFORD 

The Little Quaker Lady was sure she was dream- 
ing; it was all a dream — L’Estrange, and Jim, and 
the hospital : she would wake up in a minute in her 
little bed at home. But still her fascinated eyes 
followed the movements of the bill-poster. 

“ Impersonator,” was the word that followed, in 
type a shade less aggressive. Then was added the 
information that, on the Thursday evening follow- 
ing, at the Girard Theatre, the public would have 
the opportunity of seeing the famous Impersonator 
for the last time before he sailed for Europe. Mr. 
Bradford’s delightful readings would be given in 
costume, and the Treat of the Year was assured to 
all who would attend. 

A distant whistle blew for noon, and the bell in 
a nearby belfry, booming out the Angelus, brought 
Lois to her feet. It was not a nightmare, then, but 
only a bit of truth that is stranger than fiction ! 

Thursday evening found the girl in an orchestra 
seat of the Girard Theatre. She had come early, 
expecting the entertainment to begin on time ; to her 
surprise, the house was nearly empty, but as the min- 
utes passed, it began to fill up, until most of the seats 
were taken, and still Howell Bradford did not ap- 
pear. So unbearable was the suspense becoming 
that Lois felt she must jump up and scream. She 


IN PHILADELPHIA 


163 

could see herself, the quiet, self-contained Lois Hor- 
ton, dashing shrieking from the place, and she 
gripped the sides of her chair until her knuckles 
snapped. 

And then he came : an old man, bent and grey and 
tottering, yet demanding what the letter of the law 
allowed him — his pound of flesh. 

“ Wouldn’t you think he was an old man? ” whis- 
pered some one near her. “ Now wait till you see 
him take the part of a schoolboy in Knickerbockers, 
speaking a piece I ” 

Lois saw it through, but was no wiser at the end 
than at the beginning. His own mother would not 
have known the man ! But she would find out I She 
would not allow any false modesty to stand in the 
way of her settling this vital question ! 

Waiting till the house was about emptied, Lois 
made her way to a little door at the side of the 
stage, climbed the steps and knocked. The imper- 
sonator was washing the last “ make-up ” from his 
face, and came to the door, towel in hand. 

“What can I do for you. Madam?” he asked 
courteously enough, but with a side glance at the 
watch lying open on the table. 

“ Nothing, thank you, sir,” Lois answered, draw- 
ing back, after a single glance at the middle-aged 
man before her. “I — you — your name is the 
same as that of a friend of mine who is missing. 
And I thought, possibly — ” 

“ I see ! ” he said sympathetically. “ I am indeed 
sorry to have missed the pleasure of being your 
friend. You say he was Howell Bradford too? 


164 


ELIZABETH BESS 


Strange! If it were John Smith, now — You are 
sure there is nothing I can do for you? ” 

“ Quite sure,” Lois faltered as she made her way 
out through the dim passage, and then the de- 
serted theatre. 

She would not allow herself to hope again, never 
again 1 It was too harrowing 1 

For what chance was there that this L’Estrange 
was Howell Bradford? One in ten thousand, 
maybe. Jim thought he had the “ Bradford chin.” 
There were only about a dozen kinds of chins, one 
to every fifty millions of people, say! And he had 
been sorry for Jim, and interested in him? Any- 
body with a heart would have been ! And he “ felt 
sure he had seen him somewhere? ” Every day, in 
a big city, we see some one of whom we think this. 
Lastly, his name was L’Estrange — and he was a 
soldier. Well, there were millions of soldiers, more 
or less, and probably scores of L’Estranges among 
them ! 

Thus she pulled to pieces the pleasing hypothesis 
she had been building up. For the first time in her 
gentle life, Lois was bitter ! 

On going to the hospital the next morning, she 
was surprised to find Jim’s bandages removed, dark 
glasses having been substituted for them, and the 
patient sitting up in bed, chatting with the magnifi- 
cent nurse. Lois despised herself for caring, but 
this added to her vexation. She had expressed a 
wish to be present when Jim’s eyes would be uncov- 
ered, and thought they might have waited for her ! 

“ Lois Horton, cities are not good for you,” she 


IN PHILADELPHIA 


165 

told herself judicially. “ Get home to your good 
mother as soon as you can, and learn patience from 
her! ” 

Of course Lois had written to the Bradfords at 
the beginning; and now that Jim was getting better 
his family insisted that he should come home for a 
long stay, until he was strong again. So one bright 
day, just before Christmas, Lois and he said good- 
bye to the hospital — including the splendid nurse 
— and took a train for the north. 

In spite of his weakness Jim was happier than he 
had been since the night Lois showed him the ring 
that had started him on the quest for his rival. 
Some intuition told him that Lois had definitely 
abandoned her expectation of Howell’s return; and 
this being so, time would bring about his own hap- 
piness, he felt assured. 

Mother had a tempting supper ready for the trav- 
ellers; the big, “company” tablecloth was spread 
in their honour, (Bess loved that tablecloth, with its 
flower clusters tied with true lovers’ knots), and 
Miss Lois stayed to share the meal with them. 

She had gone home now, and Uncle Jim, being 
very tired, had gone to bed. “ The child’en,” as 
their little sister always spoke, collectively, of Sara 
and William, had made the heaviness of Miss Lois’s 
impedimenta an excuse for accompanying her home; 
Gran was visiting Aunt Eunice in town, and Elizabeth 
Bess had disappeared, so Father and Mother, sitting 
at either end of the table, relaxed after a strenuous 
day, and discussed the situation. 

“ Well,” said Father at length, pushing back his 


i66 


ELIZABETH BESS 


chair, “ it begins to look as if things were coming to 
a focus, now that Romance has had its toll. Jim 
goes out like a knight of old at the behest of his 
Ladye fair, and, having fallen by the wayside, the 
Ladye herself flies to his rescue.” 

Mother’s brows wrinkled in a frown. “ Don’t 
be silly, William,” she admonished. 

“ Who’s silly? I’m simply logical I Having sat- 
isfied Romance, I think our young people will come 
down to earth, forget the past, and live happy ever 
after. Doesn’t it look that way to you? ” 

” Who will? ” demanded an imperious voice that 
made them both jump. “ Who’ll forget and live 
happy? ” asked the small daughter, putting her head 
out from under the tablecloth. She had been play- 
ing house delightfully, in the shelter of its envelop- 
ing folds, and her conscience was perfectly clear, 
since she was not an intentional eavesdropper. 
Emerging now, with a doll in each arm, she said 
aggressively : 

I know who you mean! You mean Miss Lois, 
and that she’ll forget Howell, like Uncle Jim asked 
her to, the night before he went away. Well, she 
won’t. I’d like to know how she could forget him, 
when she has his picture, and his ring! And she’ll 
never be happy until Howell comes back — I know 
she won’t! ” 

“ Hi-ty, ti-ty! ” said Father, upon recovering his 
breath. “ Time you were in bed, young lady, in- 
stead of standing there talking of what you know 
nothing about! ” 


IN PHILADELPHIA 


167 


“I do, too, know!” Bess answered, the indig- 
nant tears rising as she stalked away. But Mother 
reached out as she was passing, and caught her up 
close and kissed her before carrying her off to bed. 


CHAPTER XXII 

THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE 

E ven with the war two or three years be- 
hind them, the atmosphere of sadness and 
gloom created by the great conflict still hung 
low over the people of New England. This in 
common with the rest of the country, of course; but 
perhaps more noticeably in New England, where the 
people had not yet fared so far from their Puritan 
forbears as to have discarded that grave serious- 
ness that clothed them palpably. 

Therefore when Mark Dillon, the new “ man ” 
teacher, (the first of his kind in Green Hills), sug- 
gested the holding of a Christmas-tree festival in 
the school, the innovation was viewed with dis- 
favour by many. Up to that time, the hanging up 
of stockings on Christmas Eve, had been the utmost 
concession to youthful sentimentality. There still 
remained a very few to whom any celebration of 
Christmas savoured of “ Popery,” and was there- 
fore unthinkable. 

This, however, was not the young teacher’s first 
innovation — he had taken up the matter of a Sol- 
diers’ Monument some time previously, and was tri- 
umphantly carrying it through, and the majority of 

i68 


THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE 169 

the parents therefore favoured the Christmas-tree 
plan, and promised co-operation. 

Green Hills was proud of its first man teacher, 
for Mark Dillon was one of its own boys who was 
“ making good,” as we say to-day. As a mere 
boy he had run away to the war where he won 
promotion and honour. Then, when mustered out, 
he had entered college, and was working his way 
through, chiefly by teaching in the district schools. 

Dillon’s course was in marked contrast to that 
of many men who, untrained schoolboys when they 
enlisted, came back to civil life to find themselves 
utterly unfitted for it — or rather, for anything 
above the manual labour that it had to offer them. 
Of this unhappy contingent, many were physically 
unable to work; others strongly disinclined toward it. 
And from these last was recruited a little army of 
stay-at-home ne’er-do-wells; and another of “ tramp- 
ers,” their distinguishing badge the old blue. Army 
overcoat I These unfortunates, victims of circum- 
stance, were but the flotsam of that army that came 
home to build up a surpassing nation. 

The few returned soldiers that she knew and 
these blue-coated wanderers formed the only tangi- 
ble links between Lizabeth Bess and the war. She 
had vague memories of wartime talks, some thrill- 
ing, some only puzzling. One of her earliest recol- 
lections was that Lincoln was “ calling for troops.” 
And she immediately pictured the President stand- 
ing atop of a high hill, “ calling ” himself breath- 
less I 

Another puzzling phrase was, “ mustered out.” 


170 


ELIZABETH BESS 


The only “ mustard ” she knew anything about was 
the kind Mother used to make plasters of. She had 
one applied to her little chest once, and could im- 
agine the soldiers experiencing great joy when their 
“ mustard ” was “ out! ” 

We must go back to the Christmas Tree. 

The whole Bradford family, excepting Gran, and 
Uncle Jim, who was still in the invalid class, were 
there, a.s well as all the rest of the town. The 
youthful imaginings regarding the tree itself had 
been vivid, but when the immense curtain was 
drawn back, the long-drawn ‘‘ Ah-h-h 1 ” that went 
eddying around the room told of dreams fulfilled! 

When Santa Claus came in, in his time-honoured, 
fur-trimmed suit, his red cheeks and white whis- 
kers, silence fell upon Bess. A few nights before 
she had heard his reindeers’ tread upon the roof; 
but here he was, before her very eyes ! 

No less than six times did “ Miss Elizabeth Brad- 
ford ” hear her name called, and promptly answer; 
never dreaming, as she smiled her thanks into the 
old gentleman’s twinkling eyes, that those orbs be- 
longed to Chinney! 

The good fortune of Sara and William also gave 
cause for rejoicing; nor did the little one murmur 
when the big sister’s gifts outnumbered her own. 
One of them was so lovely that all the other girls 
came crowding around to examine it. It was a 
workbox, all made of glass, and bound around with 
gilt paper beading. Inside the cover, which itself 


THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE 17 1 

was a shallow glass box, reposed a full-flown rose 
among its green leaves. 

Bess fell to wondering how that rose ever got 
into that box. There was no way in which it could 
have got in — there was no way in which it could 
ever get out I She could see it resting there through 
so many years that it made her dizzy to think of 
them ! 

Holding the box in her lap, Sara examined it 
happily. A little tray with sewing paraphernalia 
filled the upper half; the lower part was empty, save 
for a folded bit of paper with writing on it. 

“ What does that say? ” queried the small sister, 
reaching for it. But Sara pounced upon it like a 
hawk upon a sparrow and, after a hasty glance, 
thrust it in her pocket. Blushing rosily, she lifted 
smiling eyes to meet another pair of eyes smiling 
at her from across the room. Lizabeth Bess ob- 
served the signaling. 

“ What’s Lester Bond laughing at you for, 
Sara?” she asked jealously. 

“ And what makes your face so awful red? ” 

“ Hush, hush ! ” Mother whispered, shaking her. 

“ Well, it is awful red. Mother ! ” she persisted. 
“ And oh-h-h I Just look at Lester Bond’s I ” 

The overflow of the Horton family — all that 
would not fit in their big sleigh — had walked the 
mile and a half to the celebration, but it was an- 
other matter to walk home, when the festivities were 
at an end. 


172 


ELIZABETH BESS 


By “ doubling up/’ room was made in the Brad- 
ford sleigh for Miss Lois and Sally. The former 
took Bess on her lap, and, since in the excitement of 
getting the presents together, the child had lost her 
mittens, the Little Quaker Lady gave her her muff 
to hold; tucking her own little bare hands under the 
buffalo robe. 

Something hard was in the muff — hard, and elu- 
sive; it kept slipping between the investigator’s 
fingers. But they captured it at length, when it 
proved to be — of all things! — Miss Lois’s little 
chain ring. This romantic piece of jewelry the 
finder slipped upon her finger, revelling in its fic- 
titious ownership, until the combination of frosty 
air and jingling sleigh-bells made her forget the 
ring, and everything else. 

The Bradfords left their neighbours at their own 
door; Lois, without having missed her ring, pos- 
sessed herself of her muff and said good-night. 
Just then the moon came up, clear and cloudless, to 
the delight of William and Sara. “Goody! 
there’ll be moonlight in the morning!” they ex- 
claimed. 

It was the Bradford custom to drive into town 
for the before-daylight services on Christmas morn- 
ing, and moonlight for the drive was an important 
factor. 


CHAPTER XXIII 

THE TRAGEDY OF THE KNIFE 

W HEN Elizabeth Bess Bradford was five, 
one of her father’s sisters married a mid- 
dle-aged widower with an only child — a 
delicate little daughter of nine or ten. The two 
children, little Janey Welsh and Bess, found them- 
selves congenial spirits from the first; and the lat- 
ter esteemed it a great favour to be invited to her 
aunt’s house in town, the splendours of which were a 
continual feast to her eyes. 

Then, the toys of Janey I And the clothes 1 
While out in the wood-shed might still be seen her 
old baby carriage, which of itself proclaimed her the 
aristocrat! Bess’s car of state had been William’s 
little wagon with the squat, iron wheels; her pranc- 
ing charger, the faithful William himself. 

When, after one brief season together, the little 
Janey relaxed her frail hold upon life and lay quietly 
dying on the big, hair-cloth sofa in the parlour, it 
was her joy to have Bess come and stay with her. 
For hours together the child would sit beside her 
friend, swinging the peacock feather fan or read- 
ing the stories in ‘‘ Wilson’s Second Reader,” which 
she could do almost as well as Janey herself; or play- 
173 


174 


ELIZABETH BESS 


ing with the two dolls and making up little stories 
about them, which she would tell to Janey. 

Elizabeth Bess had never been able to make up 
her mind which of Janey’s two dolls she liked best: 
the big doll, which boasted the great height of fif- 
teen inches, but was handicapped by cloth feet and 
hands, or the little doll, which stood a bare ten 
inches in her dainty, blue china shoes, and had pretty 
hands and arms of white china, as well. 

But she never had to choose between them. One 
day Mother came home from Aunt Eunice’s, and told 
her, very gently, that Janey had gone away to 
Heaven. Opening her purse, Mother took from it 
a little carnelian ring. 

“ She took this off her finger herself, and sent it 
to you, darling. She said she wanted you to 
have it to-day. And she sent you her dolls, too. 
She said, ‘ I want Bess to have them, for I know 
she’ll take good care of them.’ ” Whereat the 
legatee went hastily into the spare chamber, and 
shut the door behind her. 

A week or two later, came a pathetic bundle of 
the other pretty things that had been Janey’s — 
dainty dresses, wonderful hats, and wraps of silk 
and velvet. 

There were no germs or microbes in the Sixties! 
So, without a qualm. Mother proceeded to “ make 
over ” the things for her girlie. A pair of rubber 
boots could not be made over, but would have to be 
grown to; so these were, of course, the things Bess 
was most eager to wear. 

After Janey’s death. Aunt Eunice, who had loved 


THE TRAGEDY OF THE KNIFE 175 

the little girl as if she had been her own, was very 
lonely — to say nothing of poor Uncle Dan’l, the 
father; so she availed herself of every opportunity 
of having Elizabeth Bess spend a day with her. 
Shortly after Christmas came the birthday of that 
young lady — and a few days before came an in- 
vitation to spend it in town with Aunt Eunice. 

Now, with Janey away, a visit to the big house 
was not the unmixed pleasure it used to be. Some 
times Aunt Eunice was the most delightful of host- 
esses : sometimes she was exacting, not to say stern, 
and the question of which mood one would find her 
in was not without elements of excitement for the 
prospective visitor. 

Not only was Aunt Eunice herself contradictory 
— so was her house, and all about it. Life therein 
was made up of joys, sorrows, and creepy mysteries. 
For example : not even Mother, who was, of course, 
the smartest, as well as the best woman in the world, 
could make such cookies as Aunt Eunice could; and 
there were always some of them on hand, as well 
as a dish of fruit upon the little serving table in the 
dining room, from which the child could help her- 
self. 

The very entrance to the place — the “ Postern 
Gate,” as Bess always thought of it — was itself a 
fairy bower, arched over with climbing rose vines, 
while in the corner of the yard, between the cherry 
trees, was a strawberry bed. 

Think of it! Strawberry shortcake on demand, 
as it were 1 Whereas, when the Bradford family 
pined for short-cake, Bess was constrained to take 


176 


ELIZABETH BESS 


her little wicker basket and scour the seven hills of 
the Round Hill pasture lot! 

In the middle of the yard stood the well. Like 
the Postern Gate, she always thought of it in capi- 
tals, but in big, black, fearsome capitals. For this 
was not a frank, open-faced well, with a willing and 
generous bucket, like the one at home. No, this 
was a mysterious, hooded thing, all covered in ex- 
cept the end of its spout. And would you believe 
that there wasn’t a vestige of a bucket? Nothing 
but a chain that had no end! You just turned and 
turned the handle, (the Wee One didn’t), and after 
a while the water began to gurgle sluggishly from 
the spout! 

There was another well in the cellar: a stealthy 
thing — a hole in the floor that lay in wait for you, 
and might catch you if you did not hold tight to 
Aunt Eunice’s hand when she went to set the milk 
and butter on the board that covered it over. 

Last of all was the brook at the bottom of the 
garden. A poor, shackled thing, confined between 
brick walls. Only once, in freshet time had it come 
into its own, rising above its imprisoning barriers, 
picking up the empty chicken coops and ash barrels 
and carrying them away on its crest, Elizabeth Bess 
exulting in its freedom. 

From the high, back stoop could be seen, just 
across the railroad, the “ Old Gong.” Morning, 
noon and night it boomed out its thunderous mes- 
sage and Bess felt a proud, proprietary interest in it. 

Another thing that atoned for the capriciousness 
of Aunt Eunice’s mood was the fact that Cousin 


THE TRAGEDY OF THE KNIFE 177 

Marcia Milward also lived in town, and had staying 
with her a niece a little older than Bess, and a nephew 
a little younger. When the storm signals were set 
over Aunt Eunice’s domicile her small relative would 
betake herself to Cousin Marcia’s. She was sure, 
if not always of a good time, at least of excitement 
where Dicky and Ruth were. 

But on this sixth birthday. Aunt Eunice was gra- 
ciously kind, presenting, so to speak, the freedom 
of the cooky jar to her little visitor. A hair 
ribbon, and two little aprons of “ sprigged ” calico 
lay on her plate at the table; and Father on leaving 
for home, had given her a bright, silver quarter, “ to 
spend as you please,” he told her. 

To spend as she pleased! Ah! That was royal 
giving. She stood on the sidewalk, waving her hand 
to Father as he drove off. When he had gone, she 
cast a quick glance at Aunt Eunice’s front windows. 
No one was looking, so she started on a run down 
the street. 

She knew what she wanted. In the drugstore 
window, between the great globes of green and 
red, she had seen It, when Father stopped for a 
bottle of catarrh snuff for Gran. It was a minute, 
pearl-handled knife — a whole cardful of them, in 
fact, at 25^ each. 

Although she had never heard the adage, Eliza- 
beth Bess acted on the assumption that possession 
is nine points of law. If she asked Aunt Eunice’s 
permission to buy the knife it might be refused; even 
over Father his sister exercised an affectionate 
tyranny and would not hesitate to revoke his per- 


ELIZABETH BESS 


178 

mit if it seemed wise to do so; but if she went ahead 
and bought it, that would settle the matter. Such 
was the little one’s premise, but alas ! a false one, as 
it proved. 

Radiant-faced, she rushed into the house some 
twenty minutes later, leaving the door open behind 
her, (a thing Aunt Eunice abhorred), and held out 
the little box containing her treasure. Silently Aunt 
Eunice pointed to the open door, and silently her 
niece went and shut it, in instant recognition of the 
fact that the barometer was falling. There was an 
odour of burning cookies in the air. Truly the 
moment was inopportune! 

We will pass over the interview that followed. 
Suffice it to say that Aunt Eunice again forgot what 
she too seldom remembered: that she had once been 
a little girl herself. The words “ foolishness,” 
“ extravagance,” “ uselessness ” struck hard upon 
the child’s ear, and almost brought the tears to her 
eyes. Not quite, though, for this was not like one 
of Mother’s gentle “ talks,” which touched the 
heart and brought the tears — but a scolding. And 
a scolding hardens, instead of softening the 
heart. 

“ Now, you’d better take it right back to the 
store, and exchange it for something useful,” the 
mentor finished. “ Your poor father works too 
hard for his money to throw it away on gewgaws.” 

Slowly and sadly passed through the Postern 
Gate one who had entered it so joyously but a little 
while before. Slowly she walked down the street 



“ Don’t say ‘ no ’ again 





THE TRAGEDY OF THE KNIFE 179 

to the “ Corner,” and with leaden feet climbed the 
broad steps that led to the Portal of the Coloured 
Globes. 

“ I want to exchange this knife for something 
useful,” she said, and something in her voice made 
the proprietor and his son, one old, one middle-aged, 
glance quickly down at her, and then across at each 
other. But the old man contented himself with tell- 
ing her to look around and find something that 
suited, while the other went on painting black let- 
ters on a big, white card. 

There were no end of pretty things that might 
also be considered useful, but they were too high- 
priced. There was “ Magnolia Cream,” that Sally 
Horton used for her complexion, and that Sara 
would have loved to use. Bess herself would have 
enjoyed putting the lovely, strawberry-and-creamy 
stuff on her own face, but it was fifty cents. 

There was a little pin-cushion of red silk, fastened 
in a tiny, wicker basket, but that was thirty-five. 
There was the dearest little mirror, with a project- 
ing pad around the edge for pins. This was just 
the price of the knife; but could its pretence of use- 
fulness withstand the Gorgon glance of Aunt Eunice? 
Resolutely the barterer turned her back upon it: 
she wasn’t going to risk another sending back to 
exchange ! 

The two men were beginning to look at her cu- 
riously; she could feel their eyes on her without look- 
ing up. She must decide! And then the decision 
was made for her. The younger man, took the 
card he had been working on, and hung it above a 


i8o 


ELIZABETH BESS 


row of little cartons on a low shelf. Elizabeth Bess 
slowly spelled out its facetious admonition : 

Don’t let a KoflF karry you ofE ! 

Keep Kary’s Koff Drops konstantly on hand ! ! ! 

Only 25^ a Box! 

The reader shivered at the thought of being har- 
ried off by a koff. That was what had happened to 
Janey — she had heard a woman say so at the 
funeral. Surely, surely, Aunt Eunice would call this 
a useful thing! 

“ I’ll take a box of cough drops, please,” she said, 
laying the knife, hot from her perspiring little hand, 
down upon the counter. 

Aunt Eunice threw up her hands at sight of the 
exchange. “ But, Bess, you haven’t any cold,” she 
was beginning, when Uncle Dan’l, who had come in 
in the meantime and heard the story, stopped her 
with a look. 

“ No, but she might have,” he asserted positively, 
“ and they’re mighty handy things to have in the 
house. Try one, sissy, and see if they ain’t good.” 
Sissy tried one, and found it surprisingly good, 
mostly liquorice and paregoric. “ Try another,” he 
whispered, when Aunt Eunice went into the pantry 
for a plate of the new — unburnt — cookies, 
sprinkled with sugar and currants for the occasion. 
The lady was beginning to repent of her haste, and 
was so kind that the visitor enjoyed her birthday din- 
ner, in spite of her disappointment. 

The afternoon she was to spend with Ruth and 
Dicky. So, as soon after dinner as politeness per- 


THE TRAGEDY OF THE KNIFE i8i 


mitted, she had Aunt Eunice help her on with her 
things, and sallied forth without fear of trolley car 
or automobile, up the hilly street that led across the 
town. At the top she turned, waved a hand to 
Aunt Eunice, framed in a lace-curtained front win- 
dow; then, like an outgoing ship, hull down, passed 
out of sight on the farther side. 

The caller reached Cousin Marcia’s at a momen- 
tous time. Dicky had a dreadful cold, and his wor- 
ried aunt was very much alarmed, not knowing 
whether it was lung fever, acute bronchitis or mem- 
branous croup with which he was coming down. 
The poor lady was on the verge of hysterics when 
Bess entered, and she, being fond of Cousin Mar- 
cia, was delighted to be of use. 

“ I’ve got something that’ll cure him right up I ” 
she cried, carefully extracting a cough drop from 
the package, which she as carefully replaced in the 
depths of her coat pocket. “ It said in the store 
that a cough won’t carry you off if you take them, so 
I’m going to take them home and keep them for all 
winter, so’s Mother won’t give me any more nasty 
onion syrup!” “Oh, you’re perfickly welcome. 
Cousin Marcia, and Dicky, too,” in response to the 
lady’s expressions of gratitude. “ And I’m so glad, 
now, that I got a useful birthday present! ” And 
then the story of it came out. 

The two little girls left Dick sucking his cough 
drop on the sitting-room lounge, and went out into 
the kitchen to have a tea party with Ruth’s dolls. 
The pair were very congenial and the time passed 
on golden wings. Before they realised it dusk was 


i 82 


ELIZABETH BESS 


falling, and Cousin Marcia called to Bess that it 
was time to leave. 

Going in to say good-bye to Dicky, she found him 
apparently much worse for, between coughs, he was 
crying and groaning in the most heart-rending 
way. 

“Oh, I ’most forgot!” she exclaimed, recalled 
to a sense of her responsibility, and dived down into 
her pocket. “Why, where’s my package? I’m 
sure I put it in this pocket! Oh, no, I was mis- 
takened — here it is in this one ! ” She drew it 
forth. But instead of the weighed carton, requir- 
ing care to keep it from tipping and spilling, it came 
up travelling light, so to speak, and popped out like 
a handkerchief. 

For the first time in her short life, Elizabeth Bess 
turned pale under stress of emotion. She tried to 
stifle the cry that rose to her lips, but its poignancy 
reached to Cousin Marcia above stairs and brought 
her upon the scene. What she saw was her visitor 
holding up the empty package, and gazing from it 
to Dicky, who was trying to hide his blackened 
mouth in the hollow of his arm. 

“ I’m so sick, so sick! ” he wailed, and his symp- 
toms were so unmistakable that Cousin Marcia 
rushed for a basin, returning with it just in time ! 

“ You bad, bad little boy, to eat all Bess’s candy ! ” 
she cried. “Serves you right to be sick! But I 
believe,” she added, sotto voce, “ I really believe it 
has saved him from membranous croup ! ” 

Elizabeth Bess got herself into her coat and hood 
somehow and, flinging out of the house, went flying 


THE TRAGEDY OF THE KNIFE 183 

over the hill to Aunt Eunice’s. She felt that it was 
too, too much! Not only to give up her dear little 
knife, but to be forced back into the slavery of onion 
syrup as well! 

Just at the Postern Gate she met Aunt Eunice, who 
had been out to the store; but the child could not 
answer her salutation. She held out, however, until 
they got inside, then ran and threw herself down 
on the couch in a storm of sobs and tears. 

Aunt Eunice, for all her brusqueness, was not 
hard-hearted. She felt that something serious had 
befallen her charge and, gathering her in her arms, 
soothed her until she was able, brokenly, to tell the 
cause of her grief. 

“You — you told me to get — to get a — a use- 
ful present, ’stead of my knife. And I did, and 
Dicky — and Dicky ate it all up, every single one ! 
And Cousin Marcia said — Cousin Marcia said it 
saved him from memoryous crook, but I wish — I 
wish it had killed him! Oh, dear, oh, dear! ” 

“Oh, no! You don’t wish any such thing,” 
soothed Aunt Eunice. “‘Memoryous crook!’ 
Why, if the cough medicine saved Dicky from such 
a dreadful thing as that, it certainly was a useful 
present! Now stop crying, and see here: see 
what I got for your birthday when I was out. Come 
— sit up ! ” 

Elizabeth Bess slowly sat up, and turned a 
drenched visage toward her aunt. . . . “ What 
have you got? ” she asked with a cold cynicism, for 
faith in her kind was well-nigh shattered. 

Aunt Eunice took from her muff a tiny package 


184 


ELIZABETH BESS 


and put it into her niece’s hand. “ See for your- 
self,” said she. 

Her sallow face was glowing when she finally 
loosened the little hands from about her neck. “ If 
I’d known you wanted it so much — ” 

“I wanted it awfully much!” interrupted the 
child, clasping the little knife to her, “ only — only 
you said it wasn’t ‘ useful! ’ ” 

“ Let me look at it ” ; Aunt Eunice affected to ex- 
amine it with great care. “ Maybe I was mis- 
taken,” she said thoughtfully. “ Yes, I’m sure I 
was mistaken, Bess — it’s begun to be useful al- 
ready!” 


CHAPTER XXIV 

LOST ONE WHITE HOUSE AND PICKET FENCE I 



ATHER was to come in next day and take 


his daughter home. But shortly after din- 


-M- ner the door bell rang, (Bess was im- 
mensely proud of that door bell; you had to knock 
on the door at home), and when Aunt Eunice an- 
swered it a stranger stood there, who said he was 
Mr. Hale, a neighbour of the Bradfords, and that 
he was to take the little Bradford girl home. 

“ Her father is busy and couldn’t come in to- 
day,” Mr. Hale explained. “ Please have her 
ready at four o’clock. My wife’s coming down 
from Hartford on the 3 147, and we’ll call for her 
after that.” 

Bess cast an anxious glance after this curt stranger 
whom she dimly remembered having seen but once 
or twice, as he lived on the “ lower road.” Why 
in the world couldn’t Father come? Or William? 
Strangers were — well, they were strangers. 

“ I s’pose I’ll have to go with ’em,” she said re- 
signedly. “ But we’ll have to hurry. Aunt Eunice if 
we’re to get that bag done before he comes.” She 
spoke assertively — not to say commandingly — as 
she might have spoken to Mother. A new rela- 


1 86 ELIZABETH BESS 

tionship had sprung up between aunt and niece since 
yesterday. 

“ We’ll have it done,” promised Aunt Eunice, who 
was making a little silk bag to hold the knife, a red 
lead pencil, a striped slate pencil, a piece of chalk 
and a sponge, all to be used in that happy time when 
Elizabeth Bess Bradford should be a real school 
girl I 

The bag was finished long before four o’clock, 
and its owner was sitting at the window, looking out 
between the splendid lace curtains that, not content 
to drape the window, spread their voluminous length 
in semicircles upon the Brussels carpet on either side. 
Ever since her first visit to the house, she had had a 
premonition that she would one day step on, nay, 
catch her foot in and tear one of these lovely snares 
for the unwary and now, in her dread of keeping 
the big man waiting, it happened. Springing from 
her little rocker as he turned in at the Postern Gate, 
her foot caught and the curtain gave way. She 
heard Aunt Eunice gasp and exclaim, but there was 
no time for more. Only the depressing effect of the 
thing remained with the culprit, and it was a more 
than usually shy and silent youngster that the big- 
bearded farmer stowed between his wife and him- 
self in the Portland sleigh. 

Indeed, it was a taciturn trio. Mrs. Hale had 
asked, “How do you do?” And “Very well, 
thank you, ma’am,” she had answered. And aside 
from the man’s talking to his horse — a high-spir- 
ited colt, scared at its shadow — scarcely another 
word was said during the four-mile drive. 


LOST 


187 


Owing to the speed at which they were travelling, 
the child’s little red hood was slipping from her 
head; and when she put up her hand to pull it back, 
Mr. Hale told her brusquely that she’d have to keep 
her hand down out of his way. She would have 
frozen before touching it again, but Mrs. Hale 
came to the rescue and held the hood in place until, 
a few minutes later, they pulled up at a cross road. 

The man handed the reins to his wife, and jumped 
out into the snow, and held out his hands to lift little 
Bess down. “ Here’s where you get out, sister,” 
he said, not unkindly. But at the moment another 
sleigh met them, and in it sat Miss Lois Horton. 
Now Bess had not been quite comfortable in Miss 
Lois’s presence since Christmas Day when the Little 
Quaker Lady had come in, an anxious look on her 
face, to ask if any one had seen her ring. She 
thought that it might perhaps have fallen from her 
finger into the straw in the bottom of the Bradford 
sleigh the night before. 

The changing expression on the small sinner’s face 
during the inquiry led Miss Lois to ask her, per- 
sonally. “Yes,” she answered, recollecting grad- 
ually. “ It was in your muff when I took it for my 
hands.” 

“And why didn’t you tell me?” Miss Lois de- 
manded reproachfully. 

“I — I meant to. But I wanted to wear it on 
my finger for a minute first, and then — and then I 
fell asleep and forgot it,” she had confessed guiltily. 

All this came back to Elizabeth Bess in the mo- 
ment that it took the other sleigh to pass. All this. 


i88 


ELIZABETH BESS 


and more: the fruitless search for the ring, and its 
owner’s disappointment; even the pathetic little 
droop of her shoulders as she returned up the road, 
following the forlorn hope of finding the trinket in 
the snow. 

“ Come, come! ” The sharply spoken words re- 
called Bess to her senses. She jumped up and held 
out her arms to Mr. Hale, who set her down in the 
frozen track. “ You know your way home from 
here, don’t you? ” he asked. “ Right up that road, 
straight along till you get to your house on the hill 
beyond the bridge. You do know the way, don’t 
you?” he asked again, curbing his impatience, for 
the colt was crazy to go on. And little Bess man- 
aged to get out a tremulous “ Y-yes, sir — I — I 
guess so.” 

“Straight on up the road — you can’t miss it. 
Run right along before you get chilled,” he said, 
and climbed back into the sleigh. 

“Terribly moony child!” he grumbled as they 
started off. “ Thought from all accounts that the 
Bradford youngsters were more than usually bright, 
but this one — ” 

Mrs. Hale turned for a backward glance at the 
little traveller, and caught a fleeting glimpse of her, 
standing faced toward home, when the colt gave a 
sidewise jump that nearly snapped her neck off 
short, and just missed overturning the sleigh. And 
so the poor, maligned child was forgotten. 

As for her, the moment her feet touched the 
ground something seemed to go wrong with her 
head. All sense of direction left it. The fairly 


LOST 


189 

familiar road, (she journeyed but seldom), became 
unknown territory. It was as if she had never seen 
it before ! 

Which way had that man said for her to go? 
To the left, in the little hollow, was Mrs. Cone’s 
house where she often went with Mother, but it was 
out of sight. The white house on the right she did 
not recognise. She looked away to the straight 
road ahead which her late companions had taken and 
discovered them stopped less than a furlong away, 
that estimable colt having balked at a dog that came 
barking out at him. 

Here, then, was hope ! She would run and catch 
up to the Hales, and ask them to show her again the 
right way home ! 

Long training, with William as pace-maker, had 
engendered fleetness. But before the little sprinter 
had covered half the distance between them the 
Hales had again got started, this time at a gallop. 

Despairing, she called to them. She screamed, 
she shrieked, but they heard her not. And when, a 
minute later, the sleigh disappeared over the crest 
of Long Hill she gave up. With her throat and 
chest one burning ache, her legs straws that doubled 
under her weight, she toppled into a bed of reeds by 
a roadside brook, and lay still. 

After a little, she got to her feet and looked 
around her. She heard the jingle of sleigh bells, 
and presently, back over the way the Hales had 
gone came another team, driven by a man in a big 
fur cap and an enveloping wool “ tippet,” wound 
around and around his neck and lower face. 


190 


ELIZABETH BESS 


The wayfarer decided to appeal to him. “ Mis- 
ter,” she said in a piteous little voice, as he came by, 
and looking straight into his eyes, (his only visible 
feature). “Can you tell me where Mr. William 
Bradford lives, in a white house and picket fence? ” 

“ Great Caesar’s ghost! ” The words came from 
under the peaked cap, as the man threw the robes 
off his knees, and jumped out into the snow. 
“Child alive! Where did you drop from?” he 
asked, lifting her in his arms. 

“ Oh, Chinney, Chinney! ” sobbed the Wee One, 
clinging to him, her cheek against his. “ Oh, Chin- 
ney ! Chinney! ” 

“Never mind, now — never mind!” he com- 
forted her, holding all the robes close around her 
shivering little body. “ We’ll be home in a jiffy, 
now, so stop crying, and tell me how you got lost.” 

There was silence for a long minute after the re- 
cital, except for the driver’s urging of his horse. 
Then the Wee One said: 

“ Chinney?” 

“ Yes, my pet.” 

“ Chinney, don’t you ever, ever, ever tell ! ” 

“ I never, never, never will! ” answered Chinney. 


CHAPTER XXV 


“ MY WEE-UMI ” 

S she very ill, Doctor? ’’ Mother asked, follow- 
I ing him to the door. 

A ‘‘ Let us hope it’s only a hard cold,” an- 
swered the old man evasively. “ Keep her in bed, 
of course, and give her the medicine regularly — 
when she’s awake. I’ll come again in the morn- 
ing. In the meantime, if she should take a bad 
turn — a sinking spell, or anything like that, send 
for me at once.” 

“ But, Doctor ! — ” But the doctor had closed 
the door firmly behind him, and was half way to the 
gate. 

It was the third day after little Bess’s adventure 
in the snow. Not a word had she said about get- 
ting lost, or about her quest for the “ white house 
and picket fence,” so her family supposed she had 
taken a chill on the long, cold drive. The cold had 
grown rapidly worse, until now pneumonia, (“ lung 
fever” it was in the Sixties), had developed. 

She had told the story of the knife and the stolen 
cough drops, so when in her delirium she would 
plead with Dicky to give back her medicine, so that 
the cough wouldn’t carry her off, the reference was 
understandable; but they could not understand her 


192 


ELIZABETH BESS 


cries to the Hales to “Wait!” and not to leave 
her. 

The Cheneys were at the house when she asked, 
pleadingly, to be shown where Mr. William Brad- 
ford lived, in a “ white house, and picket fence.” 
And the little man’s perturbation was so evident that 
Mother became suspicious, and made him tell, un- 
der promise of secrecy, what he knew about the 
case. 

“ But you must never let her know I told you! ” 
Chinney enjoined. “ She said once that I told her 
a story; and if she ever finds out that I broke my 
promise — ” 

The doctor found his patient no worse in the 
morning; and in the afternoon the fever did not 
reach high water mark as it had been doing; so 
the anxious family rejoiced. Toward night, how- 
ever, the pendulum swung to the other extreme : she 
lay so still and pale, her breath the barest flutter, 
that Father announced he was going for the doctor. 
A drizzling rain was falling and freezing as it fell, 
making it almost impossible for a horse to keep his 
feet. 

“ It’s easier for me to walk than to hold up a 
horse, and on foot I can take all the short cuts, and 
save time! ” he declared, between swallows of the 
scalding tea that Mother made him drink. 

It seemed ominous that the little one thought she 
was going on a journey. “ I’ll go — if you’ll go — 
Mother!” she would whisper between spells of 
coughing, until the sleep of utter exhaustion over- 
took her. 


MY WEE-UM ! ” 


193 


Supper was over, and the chores done. Sara, 
red eyed and solemn visaged, was drying the dishes, 
and every other minute tiptoeing to the bedroom 
door. William had taken off his wet boots and was 
warming his feet by the fire when a cry from Mother 
brought him up standing. 

‘‘Boy, go for Mrs. Cone — Bess is dying! Go 
quick — quick! ” she urged shrilly, but William had 
already gone. He had caught up a shawl and 
thrown it across his shoulders, and was half way 
down the icy hill in a dozen seconds. 

“ He’s gone in his bare feet!” cried Sara, throw- 
ing open the door, and peering into the dark- 
ness. Sara dashed the tears from her eyes and 
went back to her mother, who was chafing the 
child’s cold hands and entreating her to speak to 
her. 

A faint sigh was the only answer. The bed 
clothes above the little chest slowly lifted, and as 
slowly sank. This continued for some minutes, the 
intervals between breaths lengthening fearfully; un- 
til at length no further movement rewarded the 
watchers. 

Faster than the wind William flew down the icy 
hill, where he and his little sister had so often 
coasted. Over the Bridge of the Phoebe’s Nest he 
went safely in the black darkness. Past the road- 
side tree where one of her many “ houses ” was lo- 
cated, and where they had minded the cows together 
on the wide, grassy roadsides. Burning tears min- 
gled with the sleet as William ran, sobbing, along 


194 


ELIZABETH BESS 


the familiar way that he might never again travel 
with her. 

Without warning, he burst in upon the astonished 
neighbours. 

“ Mother wants you, Mrs. Cone — our Bess is 
dying! ” he panted, and would have flung out again, 
but the man of the house caught him by the arm and 
made him pull on a pair of shoes, while Fred Cone 
lit a lantern and his mother put some remedies into 
her satchel. 

Mrs. Cone was one who had missed her vocation: 
She was a born doctor, and the hour was never too 
late or too early for her to lend a ministering hand. 

Two of her sons were ready to convoy her up the 
hills, when Albert, another son, drove up from town. 
The horse was in a lather, after an hour’s slipping 
and sliding on the icy road; but George put his 
mother in the sleigh and got in beside her. Wil- 
liam was already running on ahead. The Cones 
overtook him at the bridge, so he was constrained 
to stop and hold the lantern for George to blanket 
his horse by, but he followed on the heels of 
Mrs. Cone, for whom Sara was holding open the 
door. 

William scarcely recognised his mother in the 
stricken woman who thrust out both hands to her 
neighbour, and said between tearing sobs, 

“Oh, Mary, you’re too late — she’s gone!” 

William did not believe it ! It was not true — 
it couldn’t be true, that his little sister had left him 
without saying good-bye ! Leaving Mrs. Cone to 
condole with Mother, he slipped into the bedroom; 


‘‘MY WEE-UMl” 195 

and throwing himself down beside the little, still 
figure, gathered it into his arms. 

“Wake up, Lizabeth Bess!” he said, pressing 
his cold cheek to hers. “ Do you hear me? ” He 
shook her roughly, before the protesting women 
could stop him. “ It’s William that’s talking to you 

— wake up and speak to me this minute 1 . . And 

then the wonder happened. 

“Look!” cried Mother, pointing. “Look — 
Look! For the child’s eyelids were fluttering 

— lifting and twitching. Then the eyes opened 
wide, and stared into William’s. She tried to lift 
a hand to his cheek. 

“My — Wee-um!” she whispered. Then the 
baby chest began to rise and fall ever so slightly; 
a faint, faint colour crept into her cheeks. And 
when Father and the doctor arrived, she was sleep- 
ing naturally. 

“ H’m — yes. I’ve heard of such things — of a 
shock bringing one back apparently from the dead, 
but I never saw it before,” said the doctor. “ Of 
course it was not deaths but suspended animation. 
My dear women, people do not come back from the 
dead, just for being called! However, she’s 
back!” he conceded with a smile, “and with the 
fever broken, and the heart resuming its functions, 
the little girl has a fighting chance — a fighting 
chance ! ” 

And Elizabeth Bess proceeded to make the most 
of it! 


CHAPTER XXVI 

THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 

I T was the last day of school, and Elizabeth 
Bess Bradford was going! 

In the Sixties there was no “ Commence- 
ment ” in leafy June; at least not in the rural dis- 
tricts. Two terms, one of four months in the dead 
of winter and one of three in the heat of summer, 
constituted the school year. The winter term, un- 
der the proud rule of the man teacher was now about 
to end. It was arranged, however, that the same 
hand would bend the twig the following winter. 
The Soldiers’ Monument project, which he had suc- 
cessfully carried through, had endeared Mark Dil- 
lon to the Green Hills heart! 

“ As usual,” William had pessimistically re- 
marked, Mother was a bit dubious about letting the 
youngest go. The snow that should have come in 
February had descended plentifully about the middle 
of March. Much of it was still on the ground, and 
the roads, except in early morning and late after- 
noon, were very bad. Bess could not walk the mile- 
and-a-half each way, that was certain. But when 
William declared it would be fun to draw her on his 
sled, Mother let him have his way. So “ Last 
Day ” the little sister went in state on the big, home- 
196 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 197 

made sled, — Sara and William her proud convoys. 
And for one of the trio, it came near being the “ last 
day,” indeed! 

There had been a sharp frost the previous night, 
and the snow crust was firm for the first half of the 
journey. This being across lots, and mostly down 
hill, was a delightful experience. Sara, being a 
big sister, never thought of occupying a seat on the 
sled when the youngest was along. She would tuck 
the toCs coat under her; and William, with high- 
flung heels, would push behind for a few yards, then 
hop on with one knee, the other foot swinging rud- 
derlike behind. 

“ Cock your beaver I ” he would cry, which was a 
classic way of requesting his passenger to incline 
her head, so that he could see where to steer. Then, 
away like the wind they would go, Sara, a slim- 
legged Mercury, endeavouring with giant strides to 
keep up. 

They crossed the sawmill brook below the dam on 
the ice; then on down another hill, which brought 
them to the road. And by that time, the fun was 
about over. The sun had come out bright, soft- 
ening the snowcrust, and turning the roads to slush ; 
and William was sweating like a dray horse at the 
journey’s end. 

From the first minute that the school was reached, 
the new pupil felt that she was getting her money’s 
worth. Just before the session opened, two of the 
big boys came stamping in from the woodshed, each 
carrying a section of log for the fire. One of them 
remarked, as he laid his stick down beside the long. 


I 


ELIZABETH BESS 


box stove, that he was afraid it was too long, but 
it was the last piece in the shed. 

“ If they are too long we can leave the stove door 
open a while until they get burned off at one end,” 
the teacher replied. “ There’s a good draught, and 
I don’t think it will smoke.” 

The Wee One, who was eyeing the logs, suddenly 
discovered a round hole in one of them. This was 
plainly recognisable as the door of a yellow- 
hammer’s hoilse; and in a moment, the snow had 
disappeared, the grass was growing green, the sun 
was shining on the old apple trees in the orchard, 
and she and William . . . 

She roused from her dream of summer, and then 
fell to wondering whether, by any chance, the yel- 
low-hammer had not gone South with her friends 
in the Fall. The blue-jays and the woodpeckers 
and the chickadees stayed North all winter. Sup- 
posing, now! Leaving her seat, Elizabeth Bess tip- 
toed over to the log, and stooping, hands behind her 
back, peered into the round hole. 

There was a titter, which broadened into a laugh, 
but the little girl in blue delaine was quite uncon- 
scious of the stir she was causing. 

“ Teacher,” she said earnestly, straightening up 
and looking him in the eyes, “ don’t burn up this 
stick; there’s a yellow-hammer in it! ” 

“ Oh, I think not,” the teacher answered, smiling. 
“ There might have been, once, but that’s an old 
log that had been lying on the ground a long time. 
The bird would not stay in it after the tree was cut 
down.” 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 199 

“ But it might have gone back at night, out of the 
cold,” she insisted but trembling at her boldness. 
“ I saw its yellow and black feathers. Oh, you can 
hear it, too! It’s making a noise, now: just put 
your ear down, and you’ll hear it 1 ” 

Sara, her face very red, went after her sister. 
With a not very gentle twitch she turned her around 
and was marching her back to the seat when the 
teacher interposed. “ Wait a minute, and we ’ll in- 
vestigate,” he said. Taking a map pointer, he 
prodded gently in the hole where the little one had 
seen the “ black and yellow feathers ” moving. 

There was an instant response, a noise like the 
rattling of corn when you put it in the popper and 
shake it hard. 

The teacher was not smiling when he withdrew 
the pointer and straightened up, all with one mo- 
tion. His face was pale as he reached for an ink 
bottle, and jammed it, funnelwise, in the hole. 

“ Open the outside door, Horton,” he said to 
Bunt; as, lifting the log, he carried it at arm’s- 
length from the room and pitched it out into a snow- 
drift. 

Most of the boys, after the first moment of sur- 
prise, rushed after the teacher, curiosity getting the 
better of discipline. Anyway, wasn’t it the Last 
Day? But he stopped them with a muscular arm 
across the entry doorway. “ Go back,” he said 
quietly; “ that yellow-hammer was a rattlesnake 
that had denned up in the log for the winter. The 
warmth was waking him up, but we’ll let him cool 
off in the snow and attend to his case later.” 


200 


ELIZABETH BESS 


“ The little girl with the imagination,” as the 
teacher called her, was, of course, the heroine of 
the hour. When the teacher, beaming at her over 
his glasses, remarked that he hoped he’d have her 
for a scholar, next winter, (all pupils were 
“scholars” in the Sixties!), the other scholars ap- 
plauded to the echo. 

At recess, the teacher said that all the children 
with the exception of the large boys, would remain 
in their places for a little while. He called the 
names of these large boys, and to the utter amaze- 
ment and chagrin of the small Elizabeth Bess, Wil- 
liam’s was not among them! So presently a little 
hand began to wave, timidly, but determinedly, in 
the teacher’s direction. Catching her eye, the 
pedagogue nodded encouragingly. 

Bess cleared her throat. “ Teacher,” she said 
distinctly, “you forgot one big boy — you forgot 
my brover Wee-um.” 

It was William’s turn to redden, while the girls 
giggled and the husky young farmers guffawed. 
“ Teacher ” had a momentary feeling of thankful- 
ness that this was not “ next ” winter! 

With a slap of his ruler upon the desk, he com- 
pelled silence, “ So, I did forget! ” he bowed to his 
mentor. “ William Bradford, step into line.” 

When the rattlesnake had been despatched, and 
buried under a rock that it took the combined forces 
to move, William went back into the school house 
for his sister. His ears still burned over the “ big 
brother ” business, but he thought, with a little stir 
at his heart, that she had meant well. 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 201 


She was sitting alone listlessly turning the leaves 
of a primer, and her eyes brightened as if a sunbeam 
had suddenly found them, at sight of him. William 
threw a scornful glance to where, on the corner back 
seat, Lester Bond was ostensibly helping Sara with 
her examples, but the pair were blissfully uncon- 
scious of his scorn. Putting on the little red coat 
and hood, he led their wearer forth by the hand, 
reckless as to whether or not any one called him a 
“ sissy ” for, since the night when he had so nearly 
lost her, William could hardly bear her out of his 
sight. 

Then it was that the small Elizabeth Bess made 
a discovery. Torture would not have drawn from 
her the admission which she was forced now to make 
to herself: William was not a big boy! Indeed, 
he did not come up to the shoulders of some of these 
six-footers. But — and she hugged the thought to 
her bosom — he was smarter’n any of ’em ! 
Hadn’t he just gone to the head of the Fourth 
Reader Class? And when Teacher told him to go 
to the board and do an example, you just should 
have seen William make that chalk fly I And then 
when he stepped back and turned to the room, and 
Teacher said, “Right! Take your seat,” you could 
not have convinced William’s sister that he did not 
top Hank Peters, who towered above Teacher! 
But that, alas 1 was a happy hour ago 1 

Even in this dark hour, however, dawn was at 
hand 1 As they went out together, she saw a lot of 
boys holding the arms of Hank Peters, while an- 
other belaboured him with his fists. 


202 


ELIZABETH BESS 


“Whale him good! ” they urged the castigator. 
“ Knock some sense into the big duffer. Nineteen 
years old, and only in the third reader. Seventeen, 
eighteen, nineteen, and one to grow on. Now let 
me at him 1 ” 

Thus was the child’s misery turned to joy. What 
a silly she had been: William was young — Why, 
he was only thirteen! By the time he was nine- 
teen, he would be as big, and as smart as Father. 
That was the last word, for added to his other 
splendid attributes and characteristics. Father was 
the biggest, and smartest man in the world. 

The boys were snow-balling now, and among them 
Bess particularly noticed a lively, black-eyed little 
chap, whom his companions called Cricket. He 
and a loutish looking fellow called Piggy were hav- 
ing a fierce battle, when Piggy suddenly dropped his 
face in the bend of his elbow and, pawing up the 
snow with one foot, began to bawl: “ Oh, Cricket, 
ye’ve put me eye out — ye’ve put me eye out! ” 

Bess stiffened with the horror of it. But pres- 
ently, when the victim uncovered his face, behold ! 
the eye was not out at all! Mis-er-a-ble old story 
teller ! 

During the noon recess. Cricket, who lived near 
the school, came back from his dinner, leading a lit- 
tle sister by either hand. One was a mere tot of 
three or thereabouts, with fair hair and blue eyes, 
and so shy that she clung mutely to Cricket’s hand 
every moment until the bell rang. This, with its 
attendant rush, scared the tot so that he had to take 
her home to her mother. The other one, black- 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 203 

eyed and alert like Cricket, stayed, and Bess and she 
presently became friends — a friendship that sur- 
vived and brightened all their subsequent years. 

It was at the Last Recess that Elizabeth Bess be- 
held for the first time, two fellow beings in mortal 
combat. For, if it were not mortal combat, would 
the luckless one upon whom the other was kneeling 
— would he cry out in agonised accents, “ Oh, Dave, 
yer killin’ me I 0 -o-h 1 My stummick — my 
stummick ! ” 

And the big boys stood around grinning, doing 
nothing whatever to prevent murder! Neither did 
William do anything! But his sister defended him 
on the ground of this new assumption: William 
was a little boy. 

Had she but known, William beheld the conflict 
with unseeing eyes. His whole attention was en- 
gaged with the problem of appearing unconscious of 
the sly gibes about “My big brover Wee-um ” 
which were being passed around. 

It did not occur to the child to tell the teacher 
about the fight. Indeed, she could think of nothing 
but the awful scene before her. Suddenly, with a 
piercing cry, she ran to William and, clutching him 
with two icy little hands, buried her face against his 
breast. 

William, to whom a fight, either as participant or 
spectator, was all in the day’s work of a schoolboy, 
could not think at first what was the matter with 
her. “ Are you sick, or what ails you? ” he asked 
her. “ Do you want Sara? Tell me, this minute! 
Whatii it?” 


204 


ELIZABETH BESS 


“Stop them — stop them!” she whispered 
tragically, burrowing deeper into his jacket. 

William put a reassuring arm about her, hold- 
ing her close while he called out, as one in author- 
ity, “ Come fellows, quit it ! Dave, get off Dutch, 
and let him up, I tell you I ” 

But Dave paid not the slightest attention to Wil- 
liam. It is harrowing to think how the thing might 
have ended had not Jeff Wingate, a recent “ grad- 
uate ’’ of that hall of learning, happened to be pass- 
ing on his ox-sled. Jumping off, he ran over and 
administered a few swift kicks to the combatants, 
together with a muttered admonition to “ Stop it, be- 
fore you scare Billy Bradford’s little sister into 
fitsl” 

“ Come, Bess, they’ve stopped now,” William 
stooped to tell her, and she opened her eyes on the 
wonder! Jeff Wingate had gone on his way; she 
knew nothing of his interference. The inference 
— the conviction, rather — was that those big boys 
had stopped fighting at the mere word of William I 

Shortly after noon, by one of the sudden changes 
incident to the New England climate, the wind 
shifted to the north again, and the air grew chill 
with a hint of coming snow. By the time school 
was out at four o’clock the slush in the road had 
frozen sufficiently to bear, but was so rough and 
hubby that William gladly forsook the highway for 
the fields when the crosslots place was reached, on 
the way home. 

Lester Bond had carried Sara’s books as far as 
he went, the two walking side by side and talking 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 205 

in low, confidential tones. When Lester dropped 
off at his own gate and Sara joined her brother and 
sister her reception was distinctly not cordial. Wil- 
liam made some sarcastic remarks, to which Sara 
replied airily that “ Little Billy Bradford thinks 
he ’s smart I 

If there was any one thing that roused Bess’s 
ire, it was to hear William called “ Billy.” Add to 
this the opprobrious epithet “ little ” and consider 
the trait’rous use of these by one of the fam- 
ily ! — 

“ You go on home, you old sass-boxi ” cried the 
enraged little sister, striking out at her as she passed. 
“ I’ll just tell Mother on you — see if I don’t I ” 

Sara tossed her pretty head and switched her 
skirts, and remarked that she was going home ’round 
by the road to stop and help Aunt Hannah Bost- 
wickl Aunt Hannah was the neighbourhood in- 
valid whom all the school children liked and helped, 
from carrying in her wood to baking her tea bis- 
cuits. So she left them at the crosslots place, and 
went on alone. 

What had been down hill on the morning journey 
was uphill now, and William, though uncomplain- 
ing, was dog tired by the time the sawmill brook was 
reached. To his dismay, he found that the ice they 
had crossed on in the morning had broken up and 
gone out, so high had the morning’s thaw raised 
the water which was running over the dam above 
in places. The usually shallow little stream was 
now a muddy torrent, running bank high. 

The boy’s heart failed him at the sight. Alone, 


206 ELIZABETH BESS 

he would not have feared, but with his little sister in 
charge — 

A little farther down the stream, a plank was 
laid from bank to bank, and this was used as a foot 
bridge except in times when the stream was frozen 
over. Ordinarily a good three feet above the wa- 
ter, now it caught the crest of the flood which broke 
into spray above it. Alone, William would have 
taken this in a hop, skip and jump. But Bess was 
scared. When he wanted to carry his books and 
sled across she clung to him, whimpering, begging 
him not to leave her — to go back around the road 
as Sara had done. 

“ We can’t, Bess — it would be dark night be- 
fore we got home, ’way ’round by the road! I’ll 
carry you across : but you’ll have to carry the books 
in your arms if you won’t let me go across with them 
first. I’ll swing the sled over, and the dinner pail. 
But I can’t throw my books over into the wet snow.” 

“ No,” agreed the trembling child. “ I’ll carry 
the books, Wee-um.” 

“ All right.” Stooping, he placed the strapped 
books across his shoulders. “ Now, Bess, climb on, 
and lie flat down on the books. That’ll hold them in 
place, and you hang on ’round my neck, tight as a 
tick, and we’ll be across in a jiffy.” 

The small sister’s spirits began to rise, since she 
did not have to cross on foot but on William’s back, 
which had provided safe convoy on so many occa- 
sions. Her only anxiety now was about the books, 
especially the enormous geography and slate; for 
these were the articles that gave prestige to the 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 207 

“ scholar.” By their size were his attainments 
judged. 

Confidently the passenger climbed aboard, her 
chin hooked over the edge of the slate and bearing 
down hard. But even at that they began to slip, 
the very moment William straightened himself and 
took the first step. 

Here and there upon the plank the spray had 
frozen, leaving little patches of ice. Alone, Wil- 
liam would not have given these a second thought, 
so sure-footed was he; but now he picked his steps 
carefully. With his precious cargo, he must take 
no chances. 

“Hurry up, Wee-um — the books is slipping!” 
urged the passenger, babbling the words with her 
hampered chin. “ Oh, hurry up, Wee-um! ” 

“ Let them go ! ” shouted William. “ Stop 
squirming, and let them go! ” 

“ Let them go ! Drop them ! ” he screamed 
again, as the frail bridge dipped and teetered. 

But Elizabeth Bess Bradford would not let them 
go. Not knowing that she was endangering Wil- 
liam and herself in a desperate effort to save the 
precious books, she let go her hold of his neck, and 
made a frantic clutch at the slipping bundle. 

Disaster followed. The weight of his burden 
thus suddenly shifted, was too much for William’s 
equilibrium. He felt himself slipping, falling, but, 
with a lightning manoeuvre worthy of an acrobat, he 
righted himself. Only for a moment, though; but 
in that moment, putting up his hands, he took his 
little sister under the arms and threw her over his 


208 


ELIZABETH BESS 


head into the snow on the farther bank. The mo- 
mentum sent him whirling into the icy water that 
carried him along, now on the surface, now in the 
depths, blindly reaching for something to grasp. 

Meantime Elizabeth Bess, scratched by the crust 
and blinded by the snow under it, got to her feet in 
hot indignation. She got the snow out of her eyes 
just in time to see William’s head appear above the 
water a couple of rods away. One shout he gave 
before the water swirled him under again, and with 
an answering shriek and another and another she 
started after him along the bank, her red, hooded 
cloak making a zigzag scarlet line as she ran, stum- 
bling and falling and rising again. 

The sawyers in the mill above, hearing the 
screams, rushed out to see what was the matter. 
The flitting red cloak gave them a clue which they 
followed until it disappeared in the alder bushes 
beyond the bend, but her voice still led them on. 

Down where the stream widened and shallowed in 
an alder swamp, they found the child, down on her 
knees in the snow, tugging with all her might at some- 
thing in the w'ater, — something which they would 
have passed by unseeing, so covered was it with the 
refuse that gathers on dead water, but which his sis- 
ter had recognised as William’s fair hair. The 
partly submerged limb of a tree was all that had 
saved him; for the water had washed him against, 
and partly upon it. Even as it was, it took a good 
half hour to get the water out of his lungs and bring 
him to, after they got him back to the little office 
room in the mill. 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 209 

His sister refused to leave him, so they stood her 
up before the little “ pot ” stove to dry while one of 
the sawyer’s helpers hurried to the Bradford home, 
returning presently with Father and Sara and 
blankets. Mother had gone to town after Grand- 
mother, who had been spending the winter in Mid- 
dletown with another daughter; when she returned 
the excitement was over, except that Bess would not 
be comforted for the loss of William’s precious 
books. 

“ Oh, somewhere between here and the Con- 
necticut River,” Father had answered when she en- 
quired about their probable whereabouts. 

“ And ’twas my fault that they got lost,” she 
mourned, “ and now Wee-um can’t go to school no 
more, and when he’s nineteen he won’t be President 
a single bit I ” 

“ What ’s that? ” Father asked. “ Our William 
going to be President? Well, we can’t let a few 
books stand in the way of a thing like that ! ” 

His small daughter eyed him suspiciously. Did 
he mean it, or was he fooling? You couldn’t al- 
ways tell I 

“Will you get him new books. Father?” she 
asked, coming and climbing onto his knee. 

“After saving our Bess? Well, I guess sol” 
said Father, and she knew he wasn’t fooling. 
“ And for saving our William, our Bess shall have 
a new book and slate, too, so she can go to school 
with him in the Fall, and grow up and be Presi- 
dentess 1 ” 


CHAPTER XXVII 

WHEN A WOMAN WILL — 


U NCLE JIM had gone away again. 

As his recovery progressed — his eyes 
becoming stronger, and the pains in his 
head less severe — the pleasant intimacy that had 
prevailed between the Little Quaker Lady and him- 
self had diminished; imperceptibly, almost, but none 
the less certainly. 

Jim, aware as he was of her natural shyness, 
thought the change due to the reaction from what 
had been the serious business of caring for him in his 
helplessness. To make sure that it was nothing 
more, he resolved once again to put to her the all 
important question. And he chose the incident of 
the missing ring as the occasion. 

“ Why search for it longer, Lois? ” he asked her 
gently when, on Christmas evening, he carried her 
the book of poems and box of candy he had bought 
for her. “ Why not end it here and now, and the 
other hopeless quest with it? Oh, my dear, it isn’t 
right that you should wear your life out, chasing 
after a shadow — a shadow that has already dark- 
ened and saddened it so terribly I Give it up, Lois I 
Give your dear life into my keeping, sweetheart. 
As the poet says here ” — he tapped the book upon 
210 


“WHEN A WOMAN WILL—” 21 1 


the table, ‘ Let the dead past bury its dead ! ’ Can't 
you do it? ” he pleaded. “ Don’t say ‘ no ’ again I ” 

“ Oh, Jim, dear, I can’t say anything else I ” cried 
Lois in distress. “ Do believe me when I say I have 
tried — I have tried, hard — but it’s no use I And 
you surely would not want a wife who did not love 
you — and who did love somebody else : would 
you? ” 

“ No, I would not. I could not share you, even 
with a dead man,” Jim answered. “ This is the last, 
then? I am not to hope any longer? ” 

“No — don’t hope any longer I” she said with 
a quick eagerness. “ If you think we can be friends, 
I shall be glad. Otherwise — forget me.” 

Jim drew a long breath. “ I’m afraid I can’t do 
either — and stay near you, anyway. But then I 
don’t have to stay.” 

“ No, you don’t have to stay,” Lois repeated. 
Oddly enough, at that moment there arose before 
her mind a picture of the splendid nurse in the Phila- 
delphia hospital, and her interest in the handsome 
patient with the bandaged eyes. “Would you go 
back to Philadelphia?” she asked innocently. 

Jim gave her a questioning glance. Was it telep- 
athy? Or why did the same picture arise before his 
eyes — painted at a stroke from memory? 

“ I might,” he said reflectively. “ There are fine 
opportunities to be had in a big city.” Then a little 
mist of constraint fell between them, and presently 
the Little Quaker Lady once more said good-bye to 
Jim, this time with a definiteness that left him no 
room for hope. 


212 


ELIZABETH BESS 


And so Uncle Jim had gone. Elizabeth Bess told 
Susie and Rose what she thought of it, in the mo- 
notonous days when there was no one to tell bed- 
time stories, or play checkers, or bring little gifts 
home from town with him. “ There’s no Howell, 
no Uncle Jim, no nobody but just our own selves in 
this famblyl I whisht I could go to school, or do 
something! Burfa can’t come down ’cause of the 
old snow, and I can’t go up there 1 I whisht spring 
would come, and stay for ever ’n’ ever 1 ” 

As if in answer to the little one’s wish for spring, 
a very good imitation of it visited Green Hills early 
in February. . There had been a sweeping January 
thaw which cleared the ground of snow; and then 
came a few days of weather so warm and balmy as 
to be phenomenal. 

Father was planning to fence off a garden on a 
southerly slope of the Round Hill pasture which 
the wash from the hills had made rich. It was a 
custom of the neighbourhood to exchange labour — 
one helping out another when he had nothing press- 
ing of his own to do — so Father and Chinney were 
down there now, splitting rails and “ holing ” fence 
posts. The important part of this to Bess was that 
she had been commissioned to bring out their usual 
half-past nine o’clock luncheon. 

She had not yet worn the inherited rubber boots 
and, as the warm sunshine had drawn the frost out 
of the ground, making it somewhat soft and muddy, 
their owner thought it a good opportunity to initiate 
them. She begged so hard that Mother at length 
told her to go to the garret and bring them down. 


“WHEN A WOMAN WILL—” 213 

although she felt sure they were still too large for 
the child’s wear. 

She came hobbling down stairs, the boots already 
on, thinking that Mother would not have the heart 
to make her remove them and put on shoes. But 
this the cruel parent proceeded to insist upon. 

“ And be quick about it, too! ” she said. “ It’s 
after half-past nine now. They’ll think I’ve forgot- 
ten them 1 ” 

“ Oh, Mother, please let me wear them this 
once I ” their new owner begged, almost in tears. 

“ But they’re so large, child! You couldn’t walk 
in them ! ” 

“ I’ll be so careful. Mother ! And, ’sides, if I 
wait to lace up my shoes again. Father and Chin- 
ney ’ll be starved!” This crafty argument led 
Mother to glance anxiously at the clock: it was a 
quarter of ten. She was washing, and the boiler on 
the stove threatened an eruption. It was too full; 
so she caught up the handiest thing — the pitcher 
that had held the luncheon tea — and began dipping 
some of the suds into a tub. Meanwhile telling her 
daughter to “ Go on, then, and be very, very care- 
ful!” 

There was a sly smile on the lunch-bearer’s face 
as she set out — a smile that broadened and deep- 
ened as savoury odours rose to her nostrils from 
basket and pail. 

“ Smells as if it might be biscuit and gingerbread 
bofe ! ” she commented blissfully as she started down 
the hill back of the house. She had chosen the stub- 
ble field as less muddy than the road. “ I do hope 


214 ELIZABETH BESS 

Mother put in my little cup, and that Father ’ll fill it 
over ’n’ over ! ” 

“ Gracious I This hill is slippery! And muddy! 
I never thought grass’d be muddy! ” as the loose 
soil lifted with each step, and made great cushions 
on the boot soles. Not only this, but the soggy 
earth sucked so determinedly that it was with dif- 
ficulty she could lift her feet after putting them 
down. 

Clearly, disaster was impending. Her heels be- 
gan to draw up out of place and wobble around in 
the boots, the basket flew up and the pail flopped 
down, and in another minute Elizabeth Bess meas- 
ured her length upon the ground. 

Mother, hanging out clothes, heard her crying as 
she came back up the hill, dejection — nay, despair, 
in every line of her little figure. 

“ Well? ” demanded Mother, knowing that it was 
anything but well — the muddy basket and dripping 
pail telling their own story. 

“I — I slipped! I fell down!” sobbed Eliza- 
beth Bess. 

“ W-e-11, I should say you did! And it serves 
you right for being a naughty, headstrong girl — if 
it were not for the men losing their lunch ! ” said 
Mother. “ Now go in and take off your muddy 
clothes, and go to bed! ” 

Sitting upon her little “ cricket ” behind the kitchen 
stove to take off the boots, she wept dismally, for 
hungry Father and Chinney, as well as for herself. 
The boots she eyed with limitless disgust. Misera- 
ble things! They might sell them to Johnny Ma- 


“WHEN A WOMAN WILL—” 215 

hone and welcome ! She would never put them on 
again ! 

Thus resolved, she was climbing the stairs to bed, 
when Father’s voice fell upon her ear. From afar 
he had seen and heard enough to lead him to investi- 
gate, and now would have comforted and consoled 
his offspring, but Mother would not allow it. 

“Yes, as it happens, there’s more gingerbread,” 
the culprit above stairs heard Mother tell him. 
“ And there’s boiling water; it won’t take a minute 
to make another pot of tea.” 

So ! They were all going to have their lunch, 
while she must go hungry to bed I Not even a cup 
of tea for her. Quick tears welled again to her 
eyes but she dashed them away and, slipping around 
to the back stairs, made her way down to where she 
could peek into the kitchen. The big majolica 
pitcher was standing on the table. Mother always 
strained the luncheon tea into the majolica pitcher. 
Perhaps there was a little left I 

Mother had gone down cellar for cream, and 
Father was whetting his post axe outside the door 
while he waited. Making a rapid skirmish in her 
stocking feet across the kitchen floor, Elizabeth Bess 
tilted the pitcher and looked in. Yessirl there was 
a little of the pale, creamy-looking liquid in the bot- 
tom of it. 

Mother’s step was on the cellar stairs. Hur- 
riedly Bess lifted the big pitcher to her lips and 
drained its scanty contents — of soap suds — at a 
gulp. 

Mother thought she heard a gasping, spluttering 


2i6 ELIZABETH BESS 

cry, but the kitchen was untenanted when she 
reached it. 

“ I must have been mistaken,” she said. Wash- 
ing the sudsy pitcher at the sink, she poured the 
fresh tea into it to send out to Chinney, while up- 
stairs, her apron crammed into her burning mouth, 
the victim of circumstances flung herself face down- 
ward on her own bed. 

She landed on something hard, but it yielded with 
a sharp snap, as of breaking wood. Fearfully she 
raised herself to see what had happened, but well — 
all too well — she knew. That morning, for a 
canopy over the Christmas doll, she had been using 
her blue parasol : the one with the white handle and 
a knob on the end. Afterwards she had laid it on 
the bed where it still lay, but in two parts. The 
lovely white handle was broken squarely in half I 

And yet outside, the sun was shining, and a blue- 
bird was singing; and she would presently have to 
arise, and take up the burden of life once more ! 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

THE BIG DAY 

I T was the morning of the big day — the day 
of the Dedication of the Soldiers’ Monument. 
Even in their minds they spelled it with capitals 
— these people of Green Hills and the surrounding 
hamlets, who had made substantial sacrifices in order 
to bring the memorial into being. 

Not since the memorable day when the soldiers 
had marched away to save the Union, or possibly 
those later days when one and another flag-draped 
coffin had been brought back to the little town, had 
excitement run so high. 

The Little Quaker Lady, who had been made a 
sort of publicity agent, sent little narrative sketches 
telling of the coming event not only to the local, but 
also to some of the leading city papers; and these 
were read with pride under the evening lamp, and 
passed from one household to another. 

Of course, every one was going. The Bradfords, 
from Gran down, had all preparations completed the 
day before. Bess’s gala outfit of white, plus a sash 
and hair ribbon of red, white and blue, reposed on 
the bed in the spare chamber. Also the little white 
silk mitts to be used in the unveiling; for Miss Eliza- 
217 


2i8 


ELIZABETH BESS 


beth Bradford, being the youngest relative of any 
of the soldier dead, was to pull the cord that unveiled 
the monument I 

But even greatness palls at times: there are mo- 
ments when the king, if he might, would lay down 
the crown and sceptre and take up the cap and bells. 
Bess had heard so much talk about the great occa- 
sion that it had grown a bit tiresome; Sara had 
dinned into her head over and over the few lines 
she was to speak at the moment of the unveiling, 
and had even rigged up a dummy with a sheet and 
piece of clothes line, to the undisguised amusement 
of William, who had so “ plagued ” the child by 
mimicking her “ primpy ” dress rehearsal that she 
was almost ready to throw up the engagement. 

So now, dinner being over, and a half hour at her 
disposal before it was time to dress, she betook her- 
self from the scene of uplift and exaltation and, 
climbing into the dusty sleigh on the barn floor, 
opened the little window, and “ looked forth o’er 
dale and down.” It was the perfection of a May 
day: a brisk breeze was blowing and turning the 
ripples on the pond to silver, and the odours of wild 
flowers and young grass and strawberry blossoms 
were borne to her nostrils. 

With a sigh of deep content she took from the 
pocket of her apron a three-cent piece, a ten-cent 
shinplaster, a five-cent one, and three big “ coins,” 
all given her by an appreciative family for the pur- 
chase of peanuts and popcorn balls at the park in 
the afternoon. She had deemed it wise, as each 
donation was made, to say nothing of the previous 


THE BIG DAY 


219 

ones; but here, in the seclusion of the barn, it was 
safe to take them all out and gloat over them. 

Spend them all to-day? No, indeed! Not with 
so many pretty things in the Marion stores, and a 
growing balance in the tin bank in the kitchen to buy 
them with, when it should be enough 1 

No, the three-cent piece and the coins were all 
that were to be spent to-day. She folded the two 
little bills into a flat wad, and stuffed them back in 
the apron pocket. The coppers and the silver piece 
she was jingling in the hollow of her hands when 
the slim disc slipped between her fingers to the bot- 
tom of the sleigh, and thence out of sight in a crack. 

Instantly the owner was after it. Under the 
sleigh she ducked, picked the piece out of the hay 
dust and was hastily withdrawing when, miscalculat- 
ing the height of the sleigh body from the floor, she 
bumped her head, hard; so hard that it seemed as 
if her skull must be dented. 

She clapped her hand to the place, and then 
looked to see what it was that had hurt her so. 
Originally, the floor of the sleigh had been bolted 
to a supporting iron strap or brace underneath. 
One of the bolts had sometime worked through and 
been lost, and Father had repaired the damage by 
driving a big nail through the holes in floor 
and brace, and clinching it by bending it back like 
a U. It was this U that had dented the Wee One’s 
head; but she forgot her hurt in delighted astonish- 
ment as she surveyed it. 

The point of the nail was directly underneath the 
crack that had swallowed the three-cent piece, and 


220 


ELIZABETH BESS 


over this point had slipped the little chain ring that 
was lost the night before Christmas. There it still 
hung, sagging and secure, where a band ring would 
have been promptly jolted off I 

Her first impulse was to rush into the house with 
her find; but, if she did, they would take it away 
from her, the very first thing. And instead of being 
thanked she would probably be lectured again, and 
made to feel mean ! Grown folks were so lofty and 
virtuous, (“so smart and so nice!” Bess put it), 
that they never did anything wrong or made any mis- 
takes! She flushed, recalling the scenes that had 
followed the loss of the ring. Yes, grown folks 
were certainly queer ! 

Even Miss Lois had acted as if she, Lizabeth 
Bess, had been all to blame; whereas anybody could 
see that if Miss Lois had been careful and had kept 
the ring on her finger it never would have got lost ! 

Well, Miss Lois just shouldn’t have that ring for 
a little while. She wanted to wear it and she was 
going to, too ! She guessed it was her own brother’s 
ring in the first place, and if he were here, he would 
let her take it ! She’d keep that hand in her pocket; 
and if she should forget — well, she’d have some 
good of it, anyway! 

Prudence, however, is said to be the better part of 
valour. So, upon going into the house, the finder 
of the ring hid it in a little vase on the parlour 
mantel. She would leave it there until she was 
“ dressed up,” then, when Mother sent her to get 
her white silk mitts, she would slip on the ring, (with 
the carnelian circlet for a guard), and triumphantly 


THE BIG DAY 


221 


wear it all afternoon! Even if the mitt did hide 
it, ’twould be there 1 

Just as the family were about to sit down to din- 
ner, who should appear but Uncle Jim 1 The whole 
family remarked how well he looked — and happy 
— boyishly happy! “And prosperous?” added 
Father, lifting questioning eyebrows, with a smile. 

“ Surely! ” beamed Uncle Jim. “ So prosperous 
that I’m going to take a partner shortly ! ” And 
then he and Father shook hands: a very silly pro- 
ceeding in Bess’s eyes, for they had shaken hands 
when Uncle Jim came in, only a few minutes before ! 

Uncle Jim took the fourth place in the two-seated 
wagon with Father and “ the child’n,” while Mother, 
Gran and Bess drove Charlie, hitched to the top 
buggy. 

The Bradfords thought they would be early on 
the scene, but “ Monument Park,” as it was named, 
was crowded with people when they arrived. Stages 
from the surrounding towns had brought their quota, 
and quite a crowd had come down on the train from 
Hartford. This was honour, indeed! It was said 
that reporters from Hartford and New Haven — 
and even from New York, were on the ground; al- 
though no one seemed able to confirm this rumour. 

Since Bess was to do the unveiling, it behooved 
her to “ stay put ” until called for; and this she had 
been ordered to do. Front seats had, of course, 
been reserved for the relatives of the dead soldiers, 
but Mother had insisted that Lois Horton sit with 
the Bradford family who, as relatives of “ Miss 
Elizabeth Bradford,” were placed directly in front 


222 


ELIZABETH BESS 


of the speakers’ platform beside the monument. 
Lois had demurred at first, but had been persuaded 
to take the place in her reportorial capacity. 

Suddenly the peanut man was heard crying his 
wares, and William jumped up, and started to find 
him in the crowd. And Miss Elizabeth Bradford 
jumped up and started after her brother, calling out 
that she would “ be back in a minute I ” 

She would have been back in a very small fraction 
of a minute had not Mother’s hand failed to grasp 
her skirts; but Mrs. Bradford assured herself that 
William would look after his sister, and that they 
would be back directly. 

As it happened, William did not hear the child’s 
hail, so he did not know that she was following him; 
the crowd enclosed her and cut off her view of him 
before she had gone a rod. 

It was hard work even for William to make his 
way around voluminous hoop-skirts, and big, booted 
feet. People made way, somewhat, for the smaller 
adventurer, who therefore covered the ground faster, 
and got farther and farther away in the direction 
she thought her brother had taken, while Mother 
sat at ease, in momentary expectation of their return ! 


CHAPTER XXIX 

“ NOT MISSING ANY MORE I ” 

D esperately Miss Elizabeth Bradford 

made her way through the crowd. She 
must find William, and this was the way 
he had gone — or was it? Yes, there ahead she 
caught a glimpse of his brown jacket, and the sight 
spurred her to greater effort. 

She pushed her way so determinedly that people, 
who might otherwise have thought her lost, made 
way for her, and let her pass. But now the brown 
jacket eluded her, and she in a panic, began to search 
the faces about her for one she knew, but there was 
none. Then it was that her mouth began to take on a 
piteous droop and her brown eyes to fill with tears. 

“That little girl is lost I” she heard some one 
say, and this was the last straw. She had reached 
the edge of the crowd by now, but everything was 
unfamiliar. She was as much lost as when Chin- 
ney had found her by the roadside that day, so she 
stood still in her tracks, and lifting the little full skirt 
to her eyes, cried into it unrestrainedly. 

“ I believe the child is lost ! ” said a new voice, 
and one that was wonderfully pleasing. “ Are you 
lost, sister? ” the voice questioned, and she felt her- 
self lifted up in somebody’s arms. 

223 


224 


ELIZABETH BESS 


Hopefully she uncovered her eyes; but it was a 
stranger who held her; a stranger with a little book 
and a pencil in his hand. Even in her distress, she 
noticed that it was a shining blue pencil with silver 
lettering, the kind she wanted to have in her little 
green bag with the knife and the other things when 
she should be a schoolgirl. 

“Are you lost, dear?” he asked again, and her 
tears showered afresh. 

“ No, but Wee-um is! ” she sobbed. “ I c-can’t 
f-find him 1 And I can’t find M-Mother — and they 
want me back there to p-pull the r-rope and unveil 
the m-m-monument! ” 

“Well 1 Here is a how-de-do I ” murmured the 
stranger, his reportorial instincts stirring. “ We 
might have Hamlet without Hamlet; but an un- 
veiling without an unveiler — never 1 ” 

The man, who had just come, and who was, as it 
happened, the “New York reporter,” craned his 
neck in the direction of the monument which was still 
swathed in white. 

“ The country’s safe yet,” he assured her, “ but 
it’s going to be a job to get back there through this 
crowd. Hark! What are they saying? They’re 
calling for Elizabeth Bradford: Is that you?” 

“ That’s me ! ” answered the excited Elizabeth 
with returning hope. “ And I’m to pull the rope 
because Howell Bradford, my big brother — has his 
name on the monument. And oh! I hope I can 
get to see whether it says ‘ missing,’ or ‘ dead,’ ” she 
added reflectively to herself. 

“ Howell Bradford,” repeated the man. And 


“NOT MISSING ANY MORE! 


225 


then he said it again, slowly and with knitted brows, 
as if he were trying to work out a puzzle. “ Howell 
Bradford.” 

“ Yes,” said Miss Elizabeth, proudly. “ Howell 
Harlan Bradford. Don’t you think it’s a nice 
name? Ruthie Taylor says the rest of us have just 
common names — Wee-um and Sara and me. But 
Howell Harlan,” she lingered caressingly over the 
syllables, “ is lovely, I think.” 

She looked down at the man from her perch on 
his shoulder. He did not look nice and pleasant any 
more; indeed, she began to be a little afraid of him 
as he shouldered his way through the crowd, ap- 
parently without seeing them, and muttered and 
frowned to himself. 

People began to turn and look after them. 

“ They’ve found her ! ” she heard people say. 
“ That’s the little girl they’re calling for — the lit- 
tle Bradford girl, who is to do the unveiling.” 

“ And the man who’s carrying her is a reporter 
for the New York Tribune y* a man remarked to 
another. 

Again little Bess looked down at her cavalier. 
“A reporter.” Now, what was a reporter? Her 
bump of curiosity had not diminished with her ad- 
vance in age; in another moment she would have 
asked him, but something of greater importance 
claimed her attention. The two rings had vanished 
from the finger on which she had placed them! 

“Wait — Stop!” she cried, clutching his shoul- 
der with the denuded hand. “ We’ll have to go 
back — I’ve lost something!” The pangs of a 


226 


ELIZABETH BESS 


guilty conscience assailed her: this was her punish- 
ment for not restoring the chain ring to its owner 
— now she had lost both it and her own I 

“What is it that you’ve lost?” asked the man 
with a touch of impatience. “ I’m afraid there isn’t 
time to go back, if they’re waiting for you — ” 

“ Oh, my! ” squealed the child joyfully, “ I for- 
got that I’d changed ’em to the other hand — I 
thought I’d lost my rings I ” She held out a com- 
placent right hand, upon the forefinger of which re- 
posed the treasures. 

The stranger caught her outstretched hand. 
“ Where did you get this ring? ” he demanded, 
pointing to the gold circlet. 

Bess, thinking he was accusing her, said hastily, 
“ I’m going to give it right back I ” 

“ But where did you get it? ” he insisted, trying to 
strip it from her finger. 

“ Don’t take it off 1 ” she cried in affright, knot- 
ting her hand into a hard little ball. “ It’s Miss 
Lois Horton’s, and I want to give it back to her, 
right this minute. Don’t take it off 1 ” She looked 
anxiously up into the man’s face to find that it was 
no longer frowning and impatient, but neither was 
it the smiling countenance that had bent over her a 
few minutes ago when she was lost. Now his eyes 
had the startled look of one suddenly and rudely 
awakened. He certainly was a funny man, and she 
wished he would hurry and take her back to 
Mother! She was about to tell him so, when he 
asked, with disconcerting directness, “ What did 
Miss Lois Horton give it to you for? ” 


“NOT MISSING ANY MORE! 


227 


“ She didn’t ! ” confessed the culprit, ready to 
cry. “ She lost it, and I wanted to wear it a little 
while because Howell Bradford was my brother, 
and it’s his 1 ” 

The stranger lowered his burden until their eyes 
were on a level. 

“ Is your brother, sweetheart,” he corrected. 
“ I am Howell Bradford — although I didn’t know 
it till this minute. And is Miss Lois Horton here 
— and Mother — and the rest?” He was press- 
ing her head down upon his shoulder, but Elizabeth 
Bess got a strangle hold upon his neck: 

“Howell — Howell!” she faltered. “You are 
not ‘ missing ’ any more 1 ” 

Pathos, when you can hide your head in the spare 
room pillow is one thing; but quite another when 
you have to display it to a crowd. So she winked 
off a couple of tears on Howell’s shoulder, then 
lifted a proud little head to the gaze of the throng. 

“. . . Here comes Wee-um,” she whispered glee- 
fully; “ won’t he be s’prised, though, when we tell 
him?” 

“ Don’t tell him — let’s find Mother first,” the 
big brother whispered back. But even as his foot 
touched the low platform, before Mother or any 
of the others had seen him, a pair of long arms 
swooped down upon the youngster, lifted her from 
his shoulder, and set her down upon the little stage 
where the speakers were, at the side of the monu- 
ment. 

Placing the cord in her little brown, ungloved 
hand, (Mother saw this with extreme mortifica- 


228 


ELIZABETH BESS 


tion), “ Now! said the committee member, Mark 
Dillon, in a forceful whisper. 

As Miss Elizabeth Bradford slowly pulled the 
cord, you might have heard the little brook tinkling 
away off in the meadow. The previous speaker, 
one of note in that part of the State, had just con- 
cluded with the immortal words of Lincoln: 

“ — That this Government, of the people, by the 
people and for the people, shall not perish from the 
earth — ” 

And the little girl, impressed by him, threw out 
her short arm with a pretty, baby gesture, and said 
in her clear treble, 

“ Sleep, soldiers I Still in honoured rest 
Your truth and valour wearing! — ” 

As she ended, the feelings of her listeners, until 
now suppressed, broke out in a storm of applause, 
and the abashed vestal shrank back behind the 
drapery, out of sight of Mother’s beckoning finger, 
and stood there palpitating. 

As the orator of the day resumed, telling in thrill- 
ing periods of the valour of those commemorated; 
of their ‘‘ honoured rest,” on distant battle field or 
in the peaceful plot which we so fittingly call “ God’s 
Acre ” in their boyhood home, the child’s heart 
swelled within her. 

The speaker went over the list of names, mak- 
ing some brief comment on each, until he came to 
the name of Howell Bradford; when his eloquence 
soared aloft. He named the many battles in which 
the boy had taken part, and then, with a poet’s 


NOT MISSING ANY MORE! 


tongue, proceeded to voice the pathos of that sad- 
dest word — “ Missing! ” 

Through a slit in the muslin Bess could see 
Mother’s face growing white and wistful. No one 
had noticed Howell — one stranger more or less 
being negligible. Besides, his back was to the audi- 
ence, and the lifting, curling folds of the flag all 
but enveloped him, as he stood waiting for the child 
to come and be lifted down. 

She came: her scrutiny of Mother’s face showed 
her it was time ! Stepping in front of the speaker 
— “Wait! ” she said, putting an arresting hand on 
his. “ Howell Bradford isn’t missing any more — 
here he is! ” She ran to the edge of the stage, and 
held out her arms to her brother. 

As Howell lifted her down and turned to where 
he had seen his mother — and Lois ! — sitting, 
amidst the other friends, the exercises came to an 
abrupt close. Everybody within hearing rose with 
one impulse. They cheered, and cheered, and 
cheered again. 

When Howell’s mother at length released him, 
he and Lois looked into each other’s eyes. What 
the man read in the girl’s glance was a story of love 
and constancy almost without parallel, while his 
told of a re-awakening — of the supremely joyous 
ending of a search for some unknown but vital thing, 
that had seemed lost forever. 

And Elizabeth Bess Bradford? Slowly, looking 
from one to another, she removed the little chain 
ring from her finger, and handed it to its owner. 


230 


ELIZABETH BESS 


“ There’s your ring, Miss Lois,” said she. “ I 
found it to-day — and I found Howell to-day I” 
Regardless of the crowding neighbours, she swept 
her “ fambly ” — including Mother’s “ other daugh- 
ter,” with a beaming glance: 

NoWf I guess we’ll all ‘ live happy ever after ’ I ” 
said she. 


THE END 


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manded. “ The Romance of King Arthur ” shows Rack- 
ham at his best. The numerous plates in color, the black 
and white decorations, headings and drawings, combined 
with the excellent paper and printing, make a very beau- 
tiful volume which will be a valuable addition to any li- 
brary. It has been edited by Mr. Pollard of the British 
Musuem Library, whose scholarship and literary appre- 
ciation are reflected throughout. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 















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